


Biological Imperative

by OkayAristotle



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Anal Gaping, Aphrodisiacs, Bruce Has Issues, Clark's just a horny man it's not his fault, Face-Fucking, Grief/Mourning, Hal Has Issues, Let's not kid ourselves, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marathon Sex, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Tentacles, The purpose of this fic is purely to have hal jordan sobbing on an alien tentacle-cock, Threesome - M/M/M, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 18:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18722803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: “He likes you, Hal.” He says, tone gentle, like Hal's going to snap. “We both do.”Hal nods. “And when you say like—"Shut up, shut up, shut up.What's next, what profound stupidity will pour out of his mouth tonight?Do you mean like, or like-like?Jesus H. Christ.“Like-like.” Well, at least Clark said it first. He can't even look him in the eyes. He's too embarrassed on Clark's behalf to, really. “We'd like to invite you—”And now his eyes snap to Clark's, holding his gaze, firm and steady. “Are you asking me for a threesomewith Batman?”





	Biological Imperative

**Author's Note:**

> This is really rough, and honestly I'm just tired of watching it collect dust in my docs. Take it. Please.
> 
> The general timeline of this is murky at best. Sometime after Coast City's destruction but before completion of its rebuilding. Bruce's back was broken, too. Also, with a League that's a little less open with their identities. 
> 
> Featuring: Hal Jordan most definitely not dealing with his grief, Clark Kent's mystery surprise in his pants, and Batman's inability to communicate like a human being. Also, porn. Just 20k of porn.

If there was ever a time Hal Jordan has felt small, it would be now. Small in all ways, not just the physical. Small like he's stuck at the back of the bus with Brad Stevens getting gum in his hair. Small like he's at his father's funeral. Small like Coast City is— Small like the idiot in the bat costume is more capable than he is on this team.

Which is the truth, when he's looking at him, those glowing lenses so full of disappointment as he says, “That is, possibly,” he sighs, “the worst idea I have ever heard at this table, Jordan.”

And, yeah, okay. Not the best play on the jukebox, but at least he'd _tried._ Better than the rest of them all kissing Spooky's pale ass, awaiting his infinite wisdom.

And Superman is looking at him. Looking at him like— like he's small. Like there's gum in his hair, and the trouble of telling Brad Stevens to knock it off isn't worth stopping the bus— and— and Superman is looking at him.

 _Superman_ is looking at him. Because some moron (Bats.) had decided Hal Jordan was worthy of holding a seat beside him. And fuck, if that isn't laughable right now.

Hal nods, swallowing back all the things he wants to say because there's not much he could do to change Bats’ mind anyway. Eases back a step until the wall hits his shoulders, wishes he could melt into it because. Because he's still looking, still watching him with those sky blue eyes, and Hal can't meet them— can't do anything besides twist the ring on his finger and tune out the meeting.

* * *

 Two hours and four beers later, there is a text. An unknown number, which is practically unheard of in Hal's life now that Coast City is— is— and there aren't many options besides his favourite takeout and his bank reminding him he's overdrafted by ten bucks.

So, he reads it. Once, twice, a third time as he opens another beer, and then one last time for good measure.

_Are you okay? -S._

And, yeah, he highly doubts its Sandra Bullock on the other end. There's only a few _S's_ in Hal's life, and the main one tends to wear spandex and has a spitcurl and doesn't text Hal Jordan on a Friday night. He never texts Hal, period. And if he hadn't seen him snort-laugh at a text in the middle of monitor duty, he'd doubt Big Blue even had a phone.

His phone _dings_ again, and Hal takes a long swig as he reads the short message.

_It's Superman, by the way._

He'd figured. World's Greatest Detective he is not, but as previously noted, he's poorly socialized these days. Hal nods again, to nobody in particular in his small apartment. Sure. Superman's texting him.

And then he's placing his beer on the coffee table — because he may live in shit, but he can sort of afford things like coffee tables now — and stares at his phone. Reads the texts, like they're written in straight up hieroglyphs.

_How did you get this number?_

There's a beat of radio silence that is definitely guilty, and isn't that something? He's managed to make _Superman_ ashamed.

_Batman._

Well, fuck. Batman has his number, saved in his Bat-phone. Isn't that fantastic? He probably knows what porn Hal jacked it to half an hour ago. Hell, Superman probably knows too. Fantastic.

“Great.” Hal mutters, picks the beer up and scrapes the label off for lack of anything else to do. His phone buzzes again, twice in quick succession, and he can't bear to read it just yet. Peels each corner up and curses when half is left stuck to the bottle — which is fair, when it was nine bucks for six.

 _Can I come over?_ And then, _I'm coming over._

Which— okay, no. Hal rises to his feet, unsteady and it's not even half-four yet, and there's still another sixpack calling his name and there's goddamn underwear _right beside him_ in the living room, porn on his laptop, and— no.

How exactly does one keep an alien maybe-sort-of-God out of their pity party? There's not exactly kryptonite hiding out between his tins of soup. And walls are kind of like wet tissue to a man like Clark (and Jesus, isn't that a thought when his dick is still stuck in _we're watching porn_ land) and nothing can stop him, not really.

Hal locks the window.

Superman would never force a lock. It's foolproof.

And he's right, to an extent. Not a second later is his front door gently swinging open ( _stupid, Jordan, stupid, leave the door unlocked, why don't’cha.)_ , and Superman is dusting his feet on Hal's brand new welcome mat.

Still, he looks guilty. As guilty as a man like Clark can look: it comes with a smile, so friendly, and his fingers curled into his cape. And yeah, the cape and the primary colours thing might not be discreet in Metropolis, but Coast City's still—, and so he doesn't even have that to bitch about.

“Are you okay?” He asks, shutting the door with a foot, which is incredibly impolite but Hal finds his throat closing at the _idea_ of telling Superman off. God, when'd he become such a pussy?

“ _I'm fine._ ” He snaps, retrieving his beer. “Why wouldn't I be? And why are you _in my house?_ ”

And then Superman does something miraculous, something so infinitely unlikely that Hal feels an aneurysm coming on like a freight train. “Batman was a dick.” He shrugs a mountain of a shoulder, so bashful despite the fact he'd just cussed. Superman had just said _dick._

Obviously, Hal is asleep. He'd jacked off, drank too much, passed out. His League comm is probably going off the hook right now.

He nods. “And?” And then, motioning to his ratty couch and coffee table, “Why are you here?”

“To check on you.” Superman _(Clark._ Fuck. Clark.) says, like it's simple math, like Hal's small and stupid and _fuck, fuck, fuck._ Can he really kick Superman out of his apartment? Could he, not just physically but mentally as well, kick out _the_ Boy Scout to end all Boy Scouts?

Probably not.

So he flops onto his couch, sets his feet on the table, and repeats himself. “I'm fine. Thanks for checking in.” Gently, he closes his laptop where it rests on the arm, and prays Superman hadn't seen anything too incriminating.

“You don't sound it.” Floating in like a complete _ass,_ Clark pins him with a concerned stare. Like they do this every time Batman is a dick. If they did, well, they'd be best friends for life. “Are you drunk?”

“Not yet.” He sighs, mournful. Sips his beer without a word, holding Clark's gaze as he wipes foam from his mouth. “You can go, I'm fine, Red.”

Clark shakes his head, and folds his cape under his thighs as he sits on the coffee table. It creaks in protest, all thin glass and wood. The man must weigh two-twenty at least, if not more.

“Want some?” Hal waves the bottle. His mother did raise him to be polite, after all. “Do you drink?”

“Occasionally.” Clark shrugs again, and does something just as unlikely and flooring as before. His fingers find Hal's, prying the bottle from his hands just to press it to his own mouth, lips so red around the rim (and _fuck,_ porn was a bad idea today) as he finishes it in one go.

“Do you…” he pauses, Clark setting the bottle down with a gentle _clink._ “Want another?”

“Sure.” And yeah, okay, this is— it's weird. Guy won't believe him. Nobody will believe him. That Superman is drinking his shitty beer, in his shitty apartment, talking to shitty Hal Jordan like they're friends. “Thanks.”

They aren't. Though, Supes would probably say he’s friends with the world, or something. But the point stands: they're not friends, and _good_ people like Superman don't ever become friends with— people who— people like— Hal Jordan.

“Does it do anything for you?” Hal wonders aloud, realising he doesn't actually know. Doesn't know much about Superman at all, actually. “Can you get drunk?”

“Not really.” Clark answers, voice carrying to the kitchen where Hal's stuck his head in the fridge and cursed his lack of funds. All he has to offer is the cheapest beer in California. “Not on Earth, at least.”

At that, Hal can't help a laugh, deep and heavy. “I hear you.” He sighs. “What I wouldn't give for some of the stuff Kilowog brings back to base.”

“Isn't it too strong for you?” Clark wonders, and when Hal returns to the living room he's migrated to the couch, feet on the coffee table. He can't help staring, just a little.

Hal shrugs. “Not with the ring. It's strong still, won't kill me though.” He studies the boots, red and rubbery but not _actual_ rubber. Whatever Clark's uniform is made from, he's never seen anything like it. Everything breaks, or tears, or burns, or just wears thin. Except Clark's gear.

Much like Clark, he supposes. There's never a scratch on him. Even with the ring, Hal's muscles ache something fierce, and besides, he's just fucking _tired._ “Do you sleep?”

At that, Clark's caught off-guard. For once. “What?” His face, usually a perfect light tan, now deepens something redder and for the life of him, Hal can't figure out why.

“I said,” he repeats, slow, “do you sleep?”

“Yeah,” he nods, pops the cap of his beer with his thumb and does the same for Hal's. “Yeah, I sleep. Do you? With the ring, I mean.”

“Yeah.” He nods. And licks foam from the rim of his bottle, feet joining Clark's on the table. “I'm sorry, this isn't twenty questions, it's just— we don't exactly—”

It's nice of Clark not to laugh him out of his own home. Really. He's being downright embarrassing, blathering his questions like a kid meeting Big Blue for the first time.

“It's okay.” He murmurs, tone unexpectedly soft. “That's why I'm here, Hal. To talk.”

“Right.” He swallows, thick, a jolt down his spine at his own name. Not _Jordan,_ not _Lantern_. Hal. It sounds nice, the way Superman says it. “I'm fine, really. It was nice of you to— to come out here, but I'm good.”

“I'm—” Clark sighs, tilts his head just enough to catch Hal's gaze and he can't quite let go, frozen on whatever Clark wants to say, watching his mouth work for the words as if they're monumental, “I'm sorry about Batman. He doesn't— sometimes he doesn't realise the effect he has.”

His eyes stay steady, so blue and searching, like he's worried. Worried about Hal. Because Bats chewed him a little today. It would be sweet, if it weren't so depressing. Hal Jordan needs a pity friend because Batman said a mean thing.

He's small— so Goddamned small under Superman's gaze, and he still hasn't spoken, not sure what to say. “It's okay.” It's fucking not. “I'm thick-skinned.” With that, he tips a lopsided smile, one that shows his teeth, focuses on his beer. “I can handle myself, Clark.”

“I know, Hal.” He replies, and it sounds like a concession. Placating a child. It rankles, a bit, but he's not Bats, and Hal's had enough beer to know he'd just sound petulant and prove his point. “Doesn't excuse him, though.” And there's an edge to his voice, a little steel under his sigh, Hal raising his eyebrow.

“Did you argue about this?” He says, and fuck, it comes out like a laugh. A lovers spat. That explains the drinking, at least. He'd drink too if he was saddled with B. brooding all the time, too moody to even put out afterwards. “Oh my God,” he whispers, “you argued about this.”

“Not—”  Clark swallows, shakes his head. “He's… sometimes he says things, and…”

“And he sounds like a complete dick, up on his hill?”

“Well, yes.” And now he smiles, and Jesus, it's _fond._ “He doesn't mean it, believe it or not.”

The label under his fingers peels in bits and pieces, Hal counting backwards from ten until he's calm enough to say, “There's only one way to take _you're an idiot, Jordan._ ”

Clark nods, shifts his feet until his heels rest on the edge of the table. “I'm not disagreeing with that. I'm saying—” he sighs, deep and low, looks to the ceiling like he can't believe this is his life now. Hal can't believe it either, really. Superman is mansplaining the concept of _Batman_ to him. “I'm saying that when he _feels_ something, when he wants something for instance,” Clark murmurs, fast approaching inconceivable, losing Hal on his train of thought. “He tends to say the wrong things. He's saying them purposefully. Intimacy isn't exactly Batman's speciality.”

“Okay,” Hal says, faint, because _what the ever-loving fuck?_ “Alright. Good talk.”

“Hal.”

“Mm?”

“Can I have another beer?”

“Sure,” he replies, and if his voice is rough and still faintly confused, that's his own fucking business. Whatever drugs Clark is on, he can keep them. He can keep them and they can forget it was ever implied that Spooky— Spooky, what? _Wanted_ him? It's a funny thought, in the least. “Back in a second.”

With that, he pushes off the couch, every muscle protesting. What he wouldn't give for a deep-tissue massage from some intimidating Thai lady, pulling his limbs and telling him not to whine about it like the last time he'd gone.

Head stuck in the fridge, he stares at the shelves. Half the makings of a sandwich and some condiments, not much else except the sixpack. It's a little depressing, if he's being honest.

“Do you eat?” He calls back, a little desperate to move on from their earlier words.

“Uh,” Clark makes a noise, deliberating, “I don't really _need_ to. But it helps, keeping a schedule.”

Hal's eyebrows knit together as he plucks a bottle from the fridge. “You don't need to?”

“Not really.” Somehow his tone gives the impression of a shrug. “Longest I went was a month, and I didn't notice a difference.”

Hal whistles low.

“So,” Clark says, and his voice drags him closer, back into the living room. Clark's switched positions again, feet on the ground now, palms against his thighs. Maybe it's a nervous tic. Maybe it's like Barry, sitting still is just too much for him. Though this looks different, no vibrations and his fingers are steady.

Maybe he's just _nervous._

“He'd like to apologise.”

Yeah, he's nervous. That's new, and a little flooring. The concept, the very miasmic idea of Batman's stubbled, faintly minty mouth opening on the words _I'm sorry, Hal_ is too laughable to fight, Hal barking a laugh sharply.

“Good one.” He wipes his eyes. Laughs, more like a cough, thumps his chest twice and stares at his feet. “Real funny, Red.”

“I'm serious, Hal.” Clark says, and there's a hand — a huge, unscarred thing — on his arm, steadying.

“Oh, I know you are, buddy.” He snorts. “But listen, the thing about Batman is: he _lies_.” It's Batman one-oh-one. It's the first law of God, inscribed since the beginning of time, tattooed on Batman's Kevlar forehead. He lies.

“Not to me.” Clark replies, and he's standing now. So tall and towering, so serious, and his hand is still on Hal's elbow, fingers curled to the crook of his elbow. “He doesn't lie to me.”

He can't help it, Carol always said he was childish. He snorts another laugh, leans into Clark's side, drunk and exhausted and a little drunk on exhaustion. “Sure. And what makes you say that?”

That hand, large and burning warm, steadies him gently. “Are you aware Batman and I are together?”

“Am I—? Am I _aware—_ ?” He turns incredulous eyes on Superman. Sweet, sweet Superman. “The man on the fucking moon is aware, Clark. Colonies on Mars are aware that you two have been fucking each others brains out for years. Yes, I am _aware.”_

“Oh.”

“That was sweet,” he pats Clark's chest lightly, “that you thought I didn't know. I might be a moron, but I have eyes. And ears, when you're particularly loud in the War Room.”

“Oh.” Clark repeats, and Hal's dick stirs at the sudden heat of his face. Red mouth and red cheeks and red cape, all so damn embarrassed. Nobody ever said Superman wasn't cute. “Well, that's actually— well—”

“Look, Big Guy, it's fine. Apology accepted, yada yada. I'm fine.” He pats Clark's broad chest again for good measure. Nothing wrong with a little research for whatever his dick and fist get up to tonight, alone in his bed in the remote island of Coast City. Sue him. “You can tell Batsy that we're all good. Nosferatu can stalk the night without a care, now.”

“He's not actually a vampire.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, Hal, he really does want to apologise. And—" A nervous noise escapes Clark, so small and panicked, before he powers on through. “I meant what I said. About B., and you.”

“I'm not entirely sure what you meant.” Hal replies, because he obviously is running on beer and two brain cells. Of course, invite Superman to enunciate exactly how Batman's been pining over him like some nineteenth century Brontë protagonist in the rain.

“He likes you, Hal.” He says, tone gentle, like Hal's going to snap. “We both do.”

Hal nods. “And when you say like—" _Shut up, shut up, shut up._ What's next, what profound stupidity will pour out of his mouth tonight? _Do you mean like, or like-like?_ Jesus H. Christ.

“Like-like.” Well, at least Clark said it first. He can't even look him in the eyes. He's too embarrassed on Clark's behalf to, really. “We'd like to invite you—”

And now his eyes snap to Clark's, holding his gaze, firm and steady. “Are you asking me for a threesome _with_ _Batman?”_

Those blue eyes flick away, to the window. Out at the skyline, still rebuilding under the soft glow of California, and in the distance, Mt. Pacific. “Yes.”

Hal nods. Maybe those drugs Clark is on aren't so bad after all. He'd really love to disconnect from reality right now, just white out and say the stupidest shit in a practical strangers living room. He nods again. Sits on the couch, puts his feet up on the coffee table, feels Clark's gaze like a physical presence.

For a long time now, since the ring had found him and perhaps even before then, crunching his knuckles into Brad Stevens smug, eleven-year-old face, Hal had believed there were only ever two choices: Go down in flames — or do something crazy. So which was this?

Clark stands there (or rather, floats), watching him carefully. Like he's expecting Hal to break any second, and he feels like he just might. It's been a long fucking day. Running after the Corps all night and then the whole shtick with Batman, and now this. It's enough to make any man make bad decisions.

“Okay.” He nods. “It's been a while. Okay.”

It's been a lot longer than a _while._ But he figures Clark knows that. Kind of hard to get laid in an empty city. ‘A while’ is being far too kind, and his search history shows that.

“Text me when and where.” He sighs, rubs at his eyes hard. When he blinks them again, Clark is still frozen. “Well?”

“I didn't…” he laughs, and it's a rich sound, deep. “Didn't expect you to say yes, actually. Tonight?”

“Well, nobody ever called me predictable.” He quirks a grin, all pasted on. “And sure. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to pass out for a few hours.”

Clark ducks his head, spitcurl falling on his forehead, says, “Of course.” It's so polite, Hal can barely believe he'd just propositioned him. “I'll see you later, Hal.”

Dumbly, he salutes. “See you ‘round, Red.”

It's only once Clark is gone that he realises he'd never taken the beer.

* * *

It's half seven by the time he rouses, mouth dry and tasting like the underside of a Gotham dumpster. He flops over, face buried into his pillow, and groans at the protest of his shoulders. The junction of his neck is stiff, and _fuck_ , his calves burn something fierce when he stretches.

He's definitely giving that Thai lady a call.

His phone buzzes from his pocket, and blindly he digs until he fishes it out. The words are a little sleep blurred, but he manages to make out Clark's name, and that's enough to shake him awake.

_Did you get held up?_

Quickly, he reads back. The address. The time, which was five minutes ago. Clark's bashful, sweet _I'm glad you said yes._

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. On a scale from one to ten, he was firmly at royally fucked. Of course he'd oversleep the night he's getting bedded by _Superman._ He can practically see Carol rolling her eyes, saying, _You'd be late to your own funeral, Jordan._

He throws the covers away, leaves his phone on his pillow to shuck off his jeans. Shirt next, scooping his phone back up, and he's stumbling to the shower as he dials.

Clark picks up in record time, because of course he does. He's perfect at everything, and definitely wasn't late to his own funeral. “Hal?” There's concern there, a deep undercurrent. “Are you okay?"

“I'm fine.” He replies, and tries not to sound rushed. “Just dandy. Anyway, there was a— a thing— Corps business.”

Silence fills the line, followed by Clark's soft, “Oh.” Disappointed. And really, can he do nothing right? Hal slams the shower on, shifting from foot to foot in the cold air.

“I'll be five— no, ten minutes. Max. If— if we're still—”

“Of course.” Clark injects. Relief. And then, “Take your time, Hal.”

“Sure,” he mumbles, fiddles with the handle of the shower until it spits out lukewarm water, and that's good enough. “Feel free to get started without me.”

Silence again. And then Clark's voice has a new quality, one he's never heard before. Low, and wanting, when he says, “We won't.”

There's not really time to unpack that. Any of that. Hal nods, to nobody but himself, bites his lip hard. “Okay, great. See you later. Bye.” Swiftly he hangs up and hits his head against the glass of his shower. “Smooth, Jordan. Bet that got him hard.”

Faintly, he realises Clark probably heard that, and jumps under the cold spray to wash the embarrassment away.

Air Force training still sticks to his bones, apparently, when his shower is over in three minutes flat and he's combing his hair with one hand and picking out socks with the other. Do socks even _matter?_ Probably not. If all goes well, he won't be wearing them for long.

Unless this was a dinner-and-threesome type of thing. Did people still do that? Did they do it with _threesomes?_ Fuck if he knows. In fact, he's got no clue what to expect, really.

He doesn't allow himself time to stop and think on that too hard. He'll see if it's a go-down-in-flames, later. After the fact.

Playing it safe, he picks a shirt from his closet and a fairly clean pair of jeans. He's not even sure what Clark wears, on the day-to-day. They're not exactly friends, and it feels weird to think about dropping by for lunch.

_Hey Supes, how the missus?_

_Oh, you know, prowling alleys like a stray cat._

And Spooky. Spooky's a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, covered in an enigma, stuffed inside a bag of dicks. For all he knows, the Batsuit is welded to his skin.

He sighs. Combs his hair until it sits right, tugs his shirt on, buttons his jeans. Spends exactly three seconds choosing shoes when all he has is scraped up sneakers, boots for the tarmac at Ferris, and one semi-formal pair for the unlikely case he gets invited anywhere. As it turns out, they were a good buy.

He spends an extra thirty looking for condoms, realises he doesn't have any, and feels miserable for a full five more seconds. Not one single, dusty condom. That's promising.

With a sigh, he slips the ring on. Feels that faint tingle, like he's wrapped in a Magic Fingers in a dingy motel. That warmth, the heavy weight of it, enveloping him until he's got his mask on and feels all the better for it.

By the time he's knocking on the south window of a Metropolis apartment, his hair is mostly dry and he's a hell of a lot calmer than he's felt all day. Flying, _really_ flying, Mach Five and his lungs are burning with it kind of flying always has that effect.

Does Clark get that? That weightless feeling, that dizzying distance from the ground, so good he'll never find anything better, his own personal heroin.

He can't help his smile when Clark pushes the window up, stepping aside to allow Hal in.

They both sound like schoolgirls on prom night when they greet each other, Hal's breathless, “Hi.” sounding pathetic even to his own ears. Clark isn't much better, a hand on the back of his neck, parroting him.

“Are you alright?” Clark asks, shutting the window gently. “With the Corps business.”

“Oh?” He freezes. “Yeah, it's fine. All taken care of.” And then, because he loves to be awkward, adds, “Thanks, Clark.”

It's a little disorientating, if he's being honest. One minute the most he's seen of Superman is League meetings and that one time they'd bumped into each other around Saturn, Clark playing fetch with Krypto, and now he's here in the man's house.

It feels an awful lot like being friends. Which is ridiculous. At best, he's graduated to booty call.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Clark asks, but he's already heading to the kitchen, and _wow_ , open plan and everything. Maybe he should quit Ferris, start wearing dorky glasses and call himself a journalist instead.

“I'm…” he swallows. “Water. Please.” Takes in the quaint, homely-ness of it all. Little couch pillows and a stand for his DVD's, a stray cape across the arm of the couch. Pictures on the wall beside little trinkets, and Hal's beside them before he even thinks about it, poking a small statue of a cow. _Kansas County Fair, 2008._ It's all very _human_.

The pictures look old. Not ancient, but a good few years, and he doesn't recognise any of the people featuring besides Clark. A lot younger, but he's still got the jaw and the slight curls, skin a lot darker under the sun.

“My parents.” Clark murmurs, so close, ignoring Hal jumping six feet in the air. He taps the frame of the picture in question. “In Kansas.”

“You're from _Kansas?”_ And then, “Wait, your parents?”

“They adopted me.” Clark shrugs, like it's common knowledge. And maybe it is, maybe he's the last on the team to know who the fuck _anyone_ is, beyond names. And Barry, but Barry is, well, his best friend.  As far as he knows, none of them have gotten that personal with him, especially not Supes.

He has a million questions on his tongue, but the only one that comes out is, “Where's Bats?”

There's the faint _whoosh_ of air, a door creaking, and then the unmistakable growl of Batman. “Here.” Any other time, it would be intimidating. Tone like iron, just the right amount of dark pouring out, and he slinks through the room like a cat. But it's seven-forty-five, and they're standing in a Kansas boys apartment, and he looks fucking _ridiculous._

“Were you waiting for that?” Hal laughs. “Do you want your cue again, I don't think you snapped your cape enough. Maybe try it with more of a growl.”

“Shut up, Jordan.” Bats grumbles. And yeah, there it is.

Why this is a bad idea. Why Hal was drinking all afternoon. Why Clark even came to see him. Well, fuck that.  

“You're not my superior here.” He retorts. “Not even my superior on the League, but lets pretend you are. You sure do that enough.” And now he's pointing a finger, his mouth running, _God_ , why won't his finger go down? Why won't his mouth stop? “But not here. Last I heard you had a fucking _crush,_ so shut it, Spooky, and more than that, we don't do jackshit until I hear the words _I'm sorry_ from your mouth.”

And Batman's still staring at him with those cold, dead lenses. Reflecting Hal's face back at him with a faint glow, just to really rub in that he looks like shit. “Are you done?”

“Am I—?” He scoffs. Rises from the floor, because at least he can do that, and he'll realise later that he looks like a chihuahua jumping on the couch to bark. “Am I done? No, I am not done. I am _sick_ of you and your sanctimonious bullshit, like you're better than all of us. My plan was _viable_ , and you didn't even _listen_. You— you— I can't believe I ever agreed to this.”

Finally, for good measure, he throws his hands up.

“Are you done now?”

“Yes, I'm fucking done.”

Batman shifts, a barely perceptible thing. Just a rustle of his cape against the carpet, and really, it's a lovely carpet, he'll have to ask Clark where he bought— “I'm sorry.”

“Listen here, buddy, you—” Hal pauses. Sinks an inch. “What?”

“I said,” he repeats, voice flat, “I'm sorry.”

Behind his mask, Hal squints. Maybe he's still drunk. “Can you repeat that again?”

Batman sighs a puff of air to the ceiling. “Hal.”

“Yes?”

“Stop being dense.” He rumbles, long-suffering.

Hal snorts. “You really can't apologise without insulting me, can you?”

And now, now his voice rises, just an inch. “You were being purposefully obtuse, as always, and what's more—”

“ _That's enough_.”

Distinctly, he feels like they've both landed in the principal's office. Clark's moved between them, hands on his hips, eyebrows pulled tight. Clark looks at them both, waiting for silence, before he settles on the ground again.

“Hal, we're both glad you're here. And you,” he turns to Bats, a finger raised, “behave.” Jesus, if he had a camera on him, he'd make a quick fifty bucks from the eight o’'clock news for that one, Batman's mouth snapping shut like an obedient dog at Clark's tone.

The silence drags on, like they're two sulking children. Clark steps away, sending a sharp look Batman's way when he opens his mouth.

“For the record,” he murmurs, visibly bites the inside of his cheek. “It is not a _crush_ , Jordan. I am forty-five, I think I'm beyond crushes.”

Disregarding that Batman's ten years his senior (and isn't _that_ a piece of information he'll file away for later), Hal is still floored. “Was that a confession?”

“No.” Bats grumbles, and now he hears it. Faint, but it's there. Embarrassment. Same as not four minutes ago, when he'd stalked in like the room was full of criminals. _Embarrassment._

Oh? Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck._ “Fuck.” Hal murmurs. And then he's laughing, a slightly hysterical noise, a hand to his mouth. “You really have no clue how to do this, do you?” He sucks in a breath, can't quite wrap his head around the complete one-eighty that reality has taken. “If you wanted all of this,” he says, motions to his body like it's _not_ death warmed over, “you didn't have to pull my fucking pigtails.”

“I was not.” Spooky reiterates, voice still flat. Still that controlled tone, blocking out everything until it sounds cold, harsh.

“You were.” Hal asserts, and feels another argument coming on like a train he can't stop. “You really think it's acceptable to call me an _idiot_ , just because you _like me?”_

“I assumed you knew it had no bearing on—” He cuts himself off, and now he shifts for real, those gauntlets bunching his cape. “I _wrongly_ assumed you understood that it was not—” Batman was lost for words. Batman was speechless. Tonight was better and better. “I'm not good with words.” Was what he landed on, and looked to his hands.

“No shit, Spooky.”

By now Clark's moved, settled himself on the couch like they're prime-time television. Well, fuck him for leaving Hal to navigate whatever murky shit Batman tries to pass off as _logic_ these days.

“I assumed you understood it wasn't meant to hurt.” Bats continues, taking a steadying breath. Hal feels as though his brain is going to melt from his ears, all hot sludge and alcohol. And then maybe his ears will fall off too, from all the bullshit assaulting them.

“Not meant to— not meant— are you kidding me?”

“No?”

“Then why are—” He groans, grasps the air for lack of anything else to do with his frustration. “You are insufferable.”

Batman tips his head. “I am aware.”

And that— well, isn't that pathetic. Aren't they both pathetic. “Why— what did you think it was, then?” Hal snaps, wracks his brain for any version of events where what comes out of Batman's mouth isn't cutting and cold.

“I suppose,” Batman starts, stops, and those lenses reflect nothing back, “I have no clue how to… Barry tells you to shut up.” He finishes, and Jesus, there's a whole novel missing there. “And you laugh at that.”

“Bar and I, we're friends.” He tugs his eyebrows together. “It's a little different than public humiliation.”

“Yes.” And now he sounds strained, like it's physically painful. “I was attempting— that is to say—”

“Jesus Christ on a stick.” Hal digs his fingers into his eyes until all he can see is popping colours, a kaleidoscope of red and blue and all things in between. “You were royally fucking up _friendship._ Because you live in a Goddamn cave, and your only friends are an _alien_ and whatever rodents live with you. Jesus— Bats— for fucks—”

“I'm sorry.” He supplies, because there's not much else to say. And then, because he is still a dick, “Although, in the past, it has often been genuine.”

“You—” Hal points a finger, measured and careful, “are ridiculous, unbelievable, impossible, and somehow—” he sighs, joins Clark on the couch to watch Bruce, see him through Clark's eyes. Six foot two, draped in his stupid cape, mouth in a thin line. Too awkward to even make conversation how normal people do, how he's observed for years, and it all comes out of his stubbled, faintly minty mouth wrong. “You are _really_ fucking cute.”

Clark chuckles, a low sound. “Agreed.” And his tone is something light, but there's an undercurrent there that has literal colour, actual blood, filling Batman's cheeks. Embarrassment again, and Hal hears it crystal clear when he speaks.

“Shut up, Clark.”

“He's adorable.” Hal comments, conversational, and enjoys the twist of Batman's mouth. Oh, he's going to get years of gold out of this.

“Shut up, Jordan.”

“Mhm.” He hums. “Like you too, Bats.”

Clark shifts, something that must mean _something_ , because Batman flops down beside them like he's given permission. Actually flops, like a belligerent child. Clark takes his hand, rubs a thumb over the sharp knuckles of his gauntlet, soothing. “Feel better now?”

“No.”

“If we do this,” Hal comments, because he's all argued out, and he gets the feeling they are too, “I have two conditions.”

Clark nods, and that's sweet. “Of course, anything.”

“Yeah, they're not for you.” Hal squints, meets the cold lenses of the cowl. “First, no more _Jordan._ Its Hal. Hal or nothing.”

“Do I get to ask you refrain from calling me _Spooky_?”

“Not a chance in Hell, Spooky.” Hal grins. “And second, the cowl comes off. You know who I am,” he says, and thinks of the ring being slipped from his finger in that sewer, Batman's soft rumble as he thought aloud, puzzled out the ring like he hadn't just stole the universe's most powerful weapon. “Level the playing field.”

He expects a fight. He expects more insults, maybe, real ones. Not Batman's fake ones, because he has those, apparently. What he hadn't really considered was Batman saying _yes._

A pregnant pause fills the room as he untangles his fingers from Clark's, reaches for his neck and a soft hydraulic _hiss_ , the plates of the cowl separating and shifting. Hal's thought more than he'd like about Batman under there.  He'd briefly entertained the president, for a good few weeks. Currently his money is on _horrifically scarred since birth_ , which held up the _never socialised as a child_ theory as well. There was also the simple, boring answer. He was just a normal, regular Joe.

He tugs the cowl off with a sigh, a slight relief, and his hair is matted with sweat. Probably uncomfortable as fuck in there, Clark's heating turned on and the sunset streaming through the window.

Silently, Hal ticks the third box. Regular guy. Kind of disappointing, but at least he's hot. Not that there was ever doubt he wasn't, with that wicked mouth, the way it twisted into a smirk at Clark sometimes, like everyone in the room couldn't see it too. And that _jaw._

“Well?” Bats asks, head tilting. There's ungodly circles under his eyes, and yes, a few scars, faint and faded. “Nothing to say, for once.”

It's a whole new experience, seeing that face as he talks. His eyebrows move, tugged together, and his _eyes_ — well, nobody ever said Hal wasn't easy. Nice eyes. Not as cold, as emotionless, as he'd have thought, and now he understands why he covers them.

“Am I… were you expecting something?”

“People usually have more to say.” Batman states, eyes sliding to Clark's. In question, like he's completely lost, and that's a bit egotistical for a normal guy. He's not the centre of the universe, for fucks sake. And then, turning those eyes to Hal, he narrows them, “ _Do_ you recognise me?”

And that. Well, that's something. “Should I?” Hal knows he'd remember that face if it was slapped on the delivery guy, or whoever bagged his groceries last week. Maybe he was from Ferris? He could see him in a uniform, maybe.

“You are insufferable.” Bats sighs. “I'm Bruce Wayne.”

“Who?”

“Br— oh, you phenomenal douchebag. Wayne Enterprise? Ring a bell? We designed your _phone_.”

Hal's eyebrows raise. “You made my phone?”

Clark shakes between them, a full-body vibrating that he quickly realises is laughter. “Hal,” he sighs, “Remember when the Watchtower was first built and—”

And, yeah, he remembers now. He points an accusing finger. “You slapped my ass!” And digging his finger a little closer, Wayne not flinching, “And called me the _Green Nightlight.”_

“Wayne has a necessary public demeanour that is vital to—”

“Oh shut up, you just wanted to slap my ass.”

“Maybe.” He concedes, plain and simple. “I don't know.”

“ _You're_ Batman?” He can't really see it. Public persona or not, it's hard to think of them as remotely the same person. Wayne's pasted on gossip rags and GQ alike, drop-dead gorgeous and filthy fucking rich, which fits. But half his interviews sound like a six year old who's just learned new words, most of them naughty, and half a week ago he was apparently bedding Russian supermodels like it was going out of style so—

“Hal. Breathe.” Clark soothes.

“I'm fine.” He grits his teeth. Well fuck. He's hopping into bed with _Superman_ and a quadrillionaire. His dick better perform like its life depends on it, tonight. “So, is your toilet made of gold? I heard it was.”

At that, Wayne — Bruce — raises an eyebrow. “Why would my— economically speaking, I wouldn't still be a billionaire if I bought pointless—”

“Listen, buddy,” Hal leans forward, across Clark's broad chest to say, “if I were a _billionaire,_ you'd bet I'd buy myself a gold toilet. So, what the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Bruce's mouth quirks, a sharp little movement that has Hal realising he's stepped wrong. “Hopefully you, baby,” and it's dripping with insinuation, smooth like he's at some swanky get-together for the ultra rich, and Goddammit, Hal's dick wakes up.

He can see why the tabloids always go a bit nuts at his name, the pages practically nervously sweating. All that focus, all that handsome staring back at him, is enough to have Hal's face changing colour rapidly.

“How the Hell does he go from E.T, to _this?”_ Hal asks, to Clark's shrug.

“Practice.”

“What's the matter, sweetheart?” Bruce asks, and now he's sliding closer, and fuck, they're both half in Clark's lap now. Not that he seems to mind, mouth tipped up in an amused smile. ”Got a problem I can _help_  you with, gorgeous?”

“I need a shower.” Hal mutters, leans back, away from the half-mast eyes and the slick curve of Bruce's mouth.

Bruce's face shutters smoothly, back to impassive. “Would you say that was anything like Batman? No? Then you see why Wayne is a necessary evil.”

Which, fair. If only his dick would understand that, too. Instead it's still focused on the endearments, the velvet tone, the way it would have been so easy to just lean in and taste whatever it is rich men like Bruce tasted of.

Clark clears his throat deeply. “We should get back on track.” He sounds entirely Superman there, calling order when Batman and Green Lantern have started their sniping again. “Why we asked you to do this.”

“Right.” Hal swallows past the thickness in his throat, pulls back with the same speed Bruce does. “Wait. There's a reason?”

“We like you. A lot.” Clark says, gentle, warm. Meets Hal's eyes, and there's something hesitant there, a tightness to his jaw.

“I'm sensing a but.” Hal mumbles.

“No but.” Bruce cuts in, and he's taking the gauntlets off smoothly, linking his fingers with Clark's hand. The contact has an instantaneous reaction, Clark's body losing its stiffness. “Your… experience.”

“My experience?” He scoffs. It's been a long damn time, and if they're expecting miracles, well, they can keep hoping. “I'm flattered, but—”

“Not that experience.” Bruce sighs. “Out of everyone on the League, you have the most experience in space. With non-human entities.”

“Babe. You can say aliens.” Clark says, like he's said it a thousand times and it's only become endearing now. They're like a very old, very comfortable married couple.

“Wait,” Hal licks his lips, flicking between their gazes. “You invited me because you think I've fucked _aliens?”_

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Haven't you?”

“Well, I mean, yeah. But not— not a lot. Like, one. And it was exactly like human sex. Identical, in fact.”

“Well there goes the plan.” Clark murmurs, shifts between them.

“But!” Hal starts, “I mean, no judgement here if you're, I mean, you _are_ an alien and that's fine by me.” His foot firmly stuck in his mouth, Hal ploughs on. “And if you're, uh, different that's cool too, we can totally, I mean— you guys manage. I'm sure we can, too.”

Warm fingers find his, and oh, okay. Superman is holding his hand. That's fine. His thumb smooths over Hal's skin, matching the rhythm he has on Bruce.

After a while, Clark finally speaks up. “I am. Different, I mean.”

“Oh.” The suit, Superman's suit, doesn't exactly leave a lot to the imagination. Nothing, in fact. There was always a very prominent, very human-like bulge, if a little bigger than most. Hal squints. “Different how?”

“Well, ah,” a nervous breath puffs out of Clark, his thumb stuttering in its circles over Hal's hand, “Not— not that—”

“He has a tentacle.”

Clark turns to Bruce, eyebrow raised sharply. “Look who found their words.”

“We could dance around it for an hour, or we could get to the point, Clark.” Bruce says, like he didn't just out Superman as a tentacle-wielding alien. Then, he looks at Hal. “His libido is also exceptionally high, meaning I cannot comfortably accommodate him as much as he — and I — would like. Hence where you come in.”

His mouth is _dry,_ and didn't he ask for a glass of water an hour ago? He thought Kansans were more polite than this. Hal nods dumbly. “Sorry, you have a what-now?”

“Tentacle.”

“Like an octopus?”

“Like the porn you watch.” Bruce cuts in, and that's one question answered. Batman knows what he jacks it to. “A little different, but it has the same functionality of a human male, you'll manage.”

“Right.” His voice comes out weak, and there's a definite tingle beneath his skin. “And the— the libido.”

“Clark has no refractory period, and can keep going for as long as he likes.” Bruce shrugged. “He likes a lot. He can't help it for the most part, it's part of his heightened biology under a yellow sun.”

Hal nods again. Looks to Clark; cheeks a firm red, and his eyes focused on a spot on the rug, ankles crossed. “What's your record?"

“Twenty-two. He stopped as I fell asleep.” Bruce states, matter of fact, like its a line in a police report rather than the most impressive, mouth-watering number Hal's ever heard. “I can't speak of the times he kept going, as I wasn't able to accurately count. I was mostly unconscious.”

Twenty-two. Hal winces. Twice is good enough for him, enough to knock him out for an hour in a blissful haze. Twenty times after that? Fuck. Not that the idea isn't appealing, in a desperate and warming sort of way. “Well, we better get a head start, then.”

He waits a beat, studying Clark's face; pale and nervous, throat moving without sound. It must be terrifying, baring himself so openly, that Hal can't help squeezing his hand gently. With that, he rises with confidence he _really_ isn't feeling, unbuttons his shirt as he goes, heads for the bedroom without looking back.

Twenty-two times. Okay, then. He can do that. He'd be happy to, really. God, he's fucking desperate to. Feels the ache of it deep in his gut, a need, now that they're done arguing and bitching and all he really wants is that silky-smooth voice against his ear, or Clark's thick hands on his hips. After a second, he hears heavy footsteps follow, and that must be Clark. Quieter ones follow at a measured pace, Bruce closing the door behind them.

It's only once the door is shut that he realises he has questions. Like, a lot. An infinite amount, really. So many important things to ask; about their relationship, about what is and isn't okay, about _everything._ What pops out of his mouth, instead, is nothing particularly constructive. “Is it big?” Evidently, he'd left his brain back in Coast City.

At that, Bruce snorts, Hal turning to see him give Clark a slanted look. Clark who is very pointedly sitting on the bed, unlacing his shoes calmly, face beet red.  “What do you think?”

“Well,” Hal shrugs, “you never know.” He can't exactly be one to judge. He's _fine_ , but he's not making his big break into porn any time soon. “But you manage, right?”

“I manage.” Bruce agrees, touches the back of his neck again this time to tug the cape off. Without it, he looks weird. Smaller, somehow, more than he did sans cowl. “You'll be fine, Hal.” What's weirder is the tone of his words, softer and smoother, entirely alien to how he's spoken to Hal before.

It's not a _bad_ change.

“Right,” he nods, bouncing on his heels lightly. Briefly, he gives Clark a bright smile, Clark meeting it with a boyish grin. “I'll just—” he sits beside him, working on his own shoes, and maybe the socks were a good idea.

This isn't half as sexy as he imagined it. About to hop in the sack with the World's Finest and he's peeling his socks off, awkwardly stuffing them into his shoes in silence. Ollie would have a lot to say about this, if Ollie ever found out. Which he definitely won't, thank you very much. He'd never hear the fucking end of it.

Bruce unclicks the latches to his boots, kicks them under the bed and discards the top layer of armour to the floor. It strikes Hal as distinctly un-Batman-like. He'd always figured the guy folded everything into a neat little square before hopping into his hospital-corners bed at night. And then he's turning, away from Hal, and it takes him a moment to realise it's for Clark — the other man rising to unzip the underlayer, and really, does he need _that much_ armour?

He does it slowly, takes his time in tugging it down over Bruce's broad shoulders and scarred skin— _fuck,_ that _is_ a lot of scars. Thick, jarring cuts not healed right and punctures, the telltale incision down his spine, Clark pausing there to trace a finger over it. Faintly, Hal feels almost sick, an intruder for a moment on Bruce's undressing. Fat fucking lot of good all that armour did.

And as quickly as it happened, the moment passes, Clark stepping away to untuck his nine dollar shirt and pull it over his head, and then his cotton undershirt. If Clark looked good before, sweet Christ on a stick, he looks _fan-fucking-tastic_ now, unbuckling his belt and straight out of Hal's wettest dreams. Just miles of faintly tanned, unmarred skin, and muscles for days, right out of the Fireman Annual Barry bought him once, stuffed in a draw somewhere.

A small part — very small, mind you, barely there — of Hal feels a little out of place watching them from the bed. Bruce shucking the rest of his uniform off, down to tight, frankly mouth-watering boxers with that expression, so focused, and Hal wouldn't put it past him to have at least twenty plans for this night. He shoots Hal a look, mouth tugged at the corner. Maybe twenty-one plans.

He'd like to try them all. But, then, he looks to Clark, finds him hesitating with the edge of his slacks, watching Bruce, and yeah. This isn't for them. Not really. It's for _Clark_ , and that's a good plan too, especially when Bruce advances. Knocks Clark's hands away to take his hips, and _oh,_ okay, apparently they've started this thing without a word. Bruce's mouth finds Clark's, tilted up at just the right angle to give a perfect view of his tongue slipping against his partner's, wet and forceful when he starts guiding Clark back.

Back towards the bed. Back to Hal, socks off and not much more, mouth feeling awfully dry at the sight. Chest to chest, it's hard to miss the weight they both have on him, especially when Clark's knees unexpectedly buckle at the edge of the bed, landing half a foot away with a quiet moan. Not wasting any time, Bruce climbs on, hips close, calloused hands digging into Clark's jaw hard enough to hurt anyone else.

Quietly, Hal shifts up the bed, not too far that he can't still see the wet, hungry kisses to match the noises — most of them _Clark,_ finding his feet quickly to press Bruce close, kiss back hard, and it must be dizzying. All that power focused on Bruce, on Bruce's mouth as he demands access with a low, guttural noise and a hike of his hips.

It's dizzying, just watching it. Not quite sure where to look, from Bruce's mouth turning bruised and red to Clark's large hand as it grips the top of his thigh tightly, Hal settles for drinking it in as quickly as he can, and prays he doesn't come.

He feels a little like a voyeur, eyes glued to the two men as he fumbles the button of his trousers and kicks them off. Fighting his shirt blindly just to release some of the heat on his skin, Hal finds his entire brain whiting out at the sudden keen from Clark, so high and inhuman it's shocking. Bruce removes his hand from the other man's underwear with a low, quiet laugh, amused and endeared. His fingers look odd, shining in a strange way under the lamplight, and Hal realises faintly that they're slick.

Slick with Clark— Clark and his tentacle. Sweet Jesus. He must make a noise or breathe funny because Bruce looks at him then, blue eyes calm when he takes a finger into his mouth and licks it clean like Hal hasn't seen _exactly_ that in knock-off superhero porn, Superman and all. Then again, maybe he knows that. Batman does know what he jacks it to, after all. Once the finger is clean, he works on the rest, Clark's mouth gaping in such a way that it's surreal to see.

All of this is surreal. Very fucking surreal, and he's still considering if this is reality or just a booze-fuelled wet dream. Whatever the answer is, Hal doesn't really care so long as he gets to come at the end of this.

Then, because this can't get any more torturous on Hal's dick, Bruce slides from Clark's lap smoothly to settle between his thighs. Head tipped back, knees spread wide, it's the most vulnerable he's ever seen Batman. His dick aches something fierce, only burning brighter when Bruce gives him a slanted look.

“Well?” And, God, his voice sounds wrecked. Rough and gravel in a way that's miles from Batman, a whole other register. This is what he sounds like when he's turned on. Hal huffs a breath, then another. Okay. “Are you going to sit there all night, or help me?”

Tongue thick in his mouth, he swallows the pool of saliva to nod. “Keep your panties on,” Hal says, and tries to put a modicum of heat to his words, failing spectacularly, adding, “It's not going anywhere.”

“Not without you, it’s not.” Bruce rumbles, and there's teasing there, Clark opening his mouth to retort and shutting it just as quickly.

“Right,” Hal mutters, ducks his head. It's ridiculous to be nervous. It's _Superman_ , he knows Superman. Everyone knows Superman. And you don't become as kind as Superman is, as approachable as Superman is, if you've got some gnarly genitalia sporting teeth in your pants. He inhales deeply and slides closer, off the bed and into the well of Clark's thighs, shoulder pressed tight to Bruce's.

Bruce hesitates — fuck, okay, maybe he _should_ be nervous, maybe it's _bad,_ Bats’ probably would be into something freaky and grungy _—_ and pins him with a stare that's entirely cold, bereft of emotion. Not the fake kind of before, but the type he saves for cowardly criminals. For the first time, Hal understands why they run when faced with it.

“If there is even an _atom_ of you that is unsure,” he rumbles, and it's odd to see-hear from that mouth now, when he can see Bruce's eyebrows tugged tight and his jaw sharp. “Leave, now. I mean it, Hal.”

“Bruce.” Clark admonishes, but his face is calmer now. Relaxed from its nerves of before. Colour still sits high on his cheeks, chest heaving under layers of muscle, and his thighs are tense.

Bruce doesn't even _look._ “Hal.”

“I'm sure.” Hal nods. Tears his eyes from Clark's pants to meet that gaze, still frigid. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“If you breathe a word of this to any—”

“ _Bruce._ ” Now he's annoyed. It's almost funny. Clark sits up further, glaring faintly. “He's not going anywhere.”

Hal swallows past the lump in his throat. “I'm sure.” A smile tries to force itself onto his face, but God, that would probably just set Spooky off again about how this is _serious_ , and then they'd argue again, and nobody would get laid.

Bruce tugs Clark's zipper down in one fluid motion, tugs the trousers off sharply, almost yanking Clark off the bed, and then he stops. Looks up at Clark, expression clearing into one that's almost fond. Which must mean he's in absolute adoration, because Bats can't show an emotion to save his life. “Care to do the honours?”

Clark makes a noise. Half laugh, half cough, and then he's nodding, fingers finding his boxers and— okay, wow— that's _wet_ . Really fucking wet. Wetter than any girl he's ever seen. Hal wonders dumbly if that's normal for him, or he's just that desperate. And then he's not thinking much of anything, Clark's thumb hooking into his boxers to peel them away, _something_ curling around the waistband to help him along, Clark hissing at the sensation, maybe, or the cold air, or just— _fuck—_

He doesn't know. He has no fucking clue. As Green Lantern, there's been a lot of weird shit. A truckload, endless pile of weird shit, just growing and building with every mission until his tiny, human brain implodes with it all. But this might just take the cake.

Not quite sure where to begin, Hal leans forward, fully aware that his mouth is doing something undignified.

It's— It's moving, that's for sure. A writhing, twisting sort of motion, curling around Clark's fingers and then around itself, almost _pulsing_ , and God, he has _so many questions_ . And yeah, Bruce was right, it's _big—_ fucking huge, if he's being honest, almost intimidating at the base where it's thickest and stretches Clark's skin obscenely, right along his— what? _Slit?_ He has no idea.

And the damn colour on that thing. A deep, vibrant red, like all the blood in his body has pooled to this one spot, turning to a muted purple when it twists just so under the light, then back to red beneath the slick, _oozing_ — what the fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck—_ tip, tapering off to a point. A nice, manageable tip, preceding that _un_ manageable base that will never, not ever, fit inside of him. No way, no how.

He might be crazy, crashing and burning, but he's not fucking stupid.

Hal blinks. “Okay.” There's not really anything else to say, is there? He's here, between Superman's fucking glorious thighs, watching his tentacle-dick twist and curl and slick the fabric of his boxers, Batman beside him and— Hal turns, stares at Bruce's face where he's smirking slightly, almost smug. “Fuck you, man. _Fuck you._ ”

“What did I do now?” Bruce rumbles, but he sounds amused, almost fond as he reaches out and traces a finger across that slick skin, not fighting when it curls around his finger and snakes up to his forearm.

“You—” Hal stops, watches. “Doesn't that hurt?” Because the thing — tentacle, sweet Jesus — is definitely pulsing now, constricting around the meat of Bruce's arm, and he's just letting it.

Bruce shrugs. “Not really.” As if to demonstrate, he pulls free, the thick hair across his arm matted down. “Pressure feels best, rather than friction.” And then he tips his head back, all his teeth showing on his smile, “Ain't that right, baby?”

In reply, he gets a string of consonants and guttural moans, Clark's eyes screwed shut. If he's being entirely honest, Hal had forgotten he was even there, attached to his tentacle. “Rao— Bruce—”

Bruce hums leisurely. “You're not dying, be quiet.”

Clark growls. Honest, hand-on-his-heart _growls._ Hal's dick jumps at the noise. “Fucking feels like it.”

“Aww,” Hal coos. “Somebody wants to get off.”

“Jesus— Hal— just fucking—” Clark cuts off as Bruce grips him, hard, the tentacle denting and dipping under his fingers. “Fuck.”

Hal swallows. A few hours ago he was lying on his couch, watching shitty superhero porn, drinking shitty Californian beer. And now he's— he's reaching out, fingertips brushing against the wet skin of Clark's dick where Bruce still holds it, varying his pressure with a curl of his fingers. It's not as slick as he'd imagined, almost sticky to the touch. When he rubs his fingers together, it feels almost oily.

Fucking _weird._

Clark's foot thumps into the floor, a faint _crack_ . Hal's sure he'll be getting a noise complaint letter soon. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck, Bruce—”_  he chokes, cuts off, and suddenly there's a lot more slick than there was before, seeping out from his skin and between the taut slit, Bruce letting go sharply to watch. Clark _keens,_ high and loud, foot coming down again harder.

And then he falls back, panting hard like a dog, thighs relaxing. Rakes a hand through his hair, down his face with a groan, across the sweat-slick planes of his chest and then down, further, grabbing his dick surely and confidently, which strikes Hal as odd— he'd been so _nervous_ before that it's almost _hot_ watching him handle himself, wringing the last waves of pleasure out with each contraction of his fingers.

“That—” Hal breathes, feels a little like he just came too.

“It's something.” Bruce murmurs. Leans forward, up on his knees to kiss the trembling muscle of Clark's thigh. He turns, meets Hal's eyes over that wall of muscle, and says, “Your turn.”

Clark groans. “Bruce, I swear to—”

“What?” Bruce rumbles. Works his kisses closer and closer to the crease of his thigh. “What was that?”

“Rao, just—”

Hal can't help his smile, now. “Ready to go again?”

“Yes, Rao, yes,” Clark hisses, both hands coming up to grip his hair, one side becoming slicked and sticky. “Just touch me. Hal, _please.”_

God, that's a heady feeling if he ever felt one. Superman doesn't beg. But here he is, begging for Hal, for Hal's touch. Fuck.

He bites his tongue. Reaches over Bruce's head to grip Clark's dick, motions surer than he feels. Tightens his hold, Clark's hips bucking sharply, and unlike Bruce's turn, the tentacle moves in his grip— sharp, jerking movements, the tip curling around Hal's thumb as if to keep him there.

“ _Fuck._ ” Hal mumbles. Wonders if there's such a thing as _too tight_ for Clark. Grips harder anyway, tries to match the slight pulse beneath the skin of Clark's body with his fingers. It must feel good, or maybe _everything_ feels good, because Clark bucks his hips again, chasing the feeling. “You like that?”

Clark sucks in air. “Yes, fuck, yes, don't—” he groans, drawn out, “don't stop, Hal.”

“I won't,” Hal promises, because the guy seems a little torn apart with every touch. “How longs it been?”

“Wh-what?”

Hal twists his hand, to see if it gets a reaction. It does, but not as explosive as before. “Since you last came? When was it?”

There's a gasp, Clark lifting his head up, and God— he looks drugged, dishevelled, eyes half-lidded and his skin sweat-slicked, gaze finding Hal's hands with a laser-focus.

“Is now—" he pants. “Is now the time to ask?” And now he looks at Hal, like he can't believe Hal's managing to so much as speak, when all Clark seems able to do is moan and come in thick, sticky waves.

Bruce's head lifts. Says, matter-of-fact, and almost fond, “Three days. Not counting just now.”

 _Three days._ Fuck. Yet again, he has a million questions. If this is Clark's normal, he'd love to see what happens if he's denied— and, woah, okay, that came out of left field— and Jesus, three days? This, after three days.

“We've been busy.” Bruce adds, almost apologetic. Kisses the hot skin of Clark's thigh again. “He's not usually like this. It might calm down.”

“ _Might?”_ Hal squeaks. “Might? You don't know?”

Bruce shrugs. His hand joins Hal's, and the tentacle stills again. God, that's weird, and definitely something to question later. Clark clenches his jaw, drops his head back onto the bed. “Usually, Clark takes the edge off by masturbating. As you know, he was in quarantine, so he couldn't. We weren't together the last time he couldn't, so I don't know.” He sounds annoyed now, eyes tightening the way they do when he's stuck on a case with only half the facts.

And, yeah, Hal remembers. It had been a whole lot of nothing, space sniffles. But Bats had insisted on forty-eight hours quarantine. And then there was the whole space opera bullshit yesterday, so no time then. League meetings all morning, and whatever takes up the rest of Clark's time— work, assuring his boss he hasn't died, walking his dog. Whatever. Which now leaves Clark's worse than a teenager.

Apropos of nothing, Clark jerks, comes again with a shout. This time, Bruce holds on, runs his hand up the length of his dick, fingers circled tightly.

“He's gonna be insufferable.” Bruce huffs, mouth twisting into a smile.

“You don't sound very mad about that, Spooky.” Hal comments.

“Oh, I'm not.” He murmurs. And now his mouth finally finds Clark's dick, tongue running a heavy stripe along the underside. God, fuck— _fuck._ “I'm just going to be sore tomorrow.”

Clark yelps, a high-pitched, drawn-out, mother-fucking noise that goes straight to Hal's dick. Bruce licks again, bats Hal's fingers away to lean closer, that tentacle curling around his jaw, across his throat, pulsing and constricting until those scarred hands are tugging it away, guiding it to his mouth. His eyes, pale blue, slide to meet Hal's as he swallows it down slow and steady.

Even now, the thing moves, stretching out Bruce's cheek until there's a sudden _wet_ noise, Bruce's eyes fluttering shut as he coughs, and Hal knows it's down his throat. God, is it still _moving?_ Bruce's eyes open again, this time just slits, focused on the thin trail of hair down Clark's torso like a goal, a point to work towards as he pushes down, hard.

Clark, bless him, is still going. Mouth working a mile a minute; babbling, cursing, grunting, none of it in English, and his hand shakes when it curls into the dark hair on Bruce's head. Shaking still when he forces him down, drags him back up, murmurs, “Fuck, choke on--" and then he's back to— Kryptonian, maybe. Hal's not sure, but every bitten off consonant goes to his dick, hard in his boxers.

Bruce goes, not limp but certainly relaxed, eyes closed almost peacefully as he's moved and jerked and dragged however Clark wants, slick oozing down his chin. The bed's fucked, the carpet is ruined, _Bruce_ is _ruined,_ that sticky-watery-oily down his reddened chest, dripping in thick lines to his knees.

Clark comes for a third time. Four lighting-quick thrusts as Bruce chokes again— and fuck, he's _forcing_ it, Bruce bringing each constriction of his throat, because if Batman's perfect at everything, Hal would bet he's perfect at head too.

When he pulls back, Bruce doesn't open his eyes. Pants hard, hands on Clark's thighs, and he doesn't seem to register the tentacle still feeling out his mouth, catching on his teeth and against his faint stubble. “Better?” His voice is rougher than Hal's ever heard it, low and almost painful to his ears.

“God, yeah,” Clark heaves.

Hal blinks. “We're back to English, huh?”

“Shut up, Hal.”

“Make me.” No, no— "That was— reflex—” Does it matter? Does it really matter? Bruce is moving, his face a harsh red, his mouth a deeper, freshly-fucked red and it's the most relaxed Hal's ever seen him. The tension bled out of his shoulders, hips slightly slanted on his heels. Bruce moves, makes room for Hal, gives him a smile. A real smile.

Okay, then. He can do this.

Bruce moves to allow Hal room to shuffle closer, each movement giving his dick the most glorious friction. Hal's brain briefly flicks on to say, _oh yeah, remember that thing between our legs, dumbass?_ Before it shuts off again, Clark's cock closer than its ever been.

This close, he can see the odd texture of the skin. Almost opaque, in a way, enough that there's a _shifting_ beneath the top layer. This time it's flopped against Clark's stomach, lazily feeling out its owner's skin, the underside a heady shade of purple. And that— that _opening._ Whatever it is, it's rubbed raw, slick and glistening and it reminds him so much of a woman that he can't _not_ ask.

“Is that—”

“Yes.”

Okay, then. “Can you like…” he hesitates. “Can you penetrate that?”

“Yes."

“You're a real dirty-talker, you know that, Bruce?” He laughs, quietly, more nerves than anything.

Bruce huffs a laugh, too, lower than Hal's. “What did you want me to say?” He hums, and when Hal looks he's resting his chin on Clark's knee comfortably. There's still come across his mouth. “That I've made him come just from my fingers in him? That I've stretched him wide with so many toys he's _cried?_ That I've fucked him until he can't even _think,_ and he begs like a whore for it? He's so tight you wouldn't _believe—"_ Bruce swallows. “But perhaps, that's for another time.” He looks smug, heated.

“Well,” Hal's mouth feels impossibly dry. “Good to know.”

“Stop stalling.” He injects, tilting his head so his cheek rests against Clark instead. It's so affectionate it knocks Hal for a moment, realising— no, remembering that this is _Bruce Wayne._ People around the world would pay good money to have him on his knees. And here he is, giving Hal that sharp smile, like he knows exactly what Hal's thinking and agrees. “I didn't invite you to sit on your ass.”

“Bruce, shut up,” Clark groans, and then adds, “Hal, please— please—”

Well, he doesn't need to be told twice. And Bats is right anyway: he's stalling. Plain and simple. Greater men than he would fucking stall at this. He swallows again, blinking away the image of Bruce gagging with purpose, and nods.

Three things happen at once: the sheets rip loudly, Hal tastes _sweetness,_ Clark's cock forces its way ruthlessly into his mouth, past his teeth and tongue right into his throat.

And then a fourth thing happens, because Hal's life is just _like that_ : he almost throws up at the sudden intrusion, gag reflex pounded for a second by a thick, heavy tentacle.

Clark groans, bucks up, then pushes down, like he wants _away,_ as if he's over sensitive and can't decide what he wants. He cries out, ripped from his chest, and Hal tries to breathe— suck in anything resembling oxygen instead of the odd, _fucking strange_ taste of _sweet_ — like butterscotch and vanilla, maybe, but sharper, a marker that can only signify its a bodily fluid and God, fuck, his choking is real, feeling that mix slide down his throat and block _everything._

There's a hand on his neck, now, and that's when he panics. Eyes watering and chest heaving, because there's not a chance he can fight off Superman right now. Not even a horny, mind-fucked Superman. Hal's feeling pretty mind-fucked as it is.

And then, a voice beside his ear, rough and low, each note drawn out into the most soothing set of words he's heard in a long time. “It's alright, Hal.” Bruce nuzzles right under his ear, the edge of his jaw. “Just swallow. You're doing fine, just swallow.”

 _Swallow_ — Hal chokes again, because his mouth is fit to burst, every inch of it taken up by that Goddamned _jerking-writhing-coiling_ tentacle, feeling like his tonsils are about to be ripped right out. It's so heavy, and burning hot. The hand on his neck squeezes, gently, a thumb smoothing into his hair.

“You're okay.” Bruce murmurs. Kisses his jaw. If he had half a brain cell left, he'd be surprised. They haven't really touched yet, and that this is their _first_ is an odd feeling. “You're doing so good, Hal, just swallow. You won't hurt him.”

He nods. Forces his eyes open, though he can't see much more than how _much_ he's got left to swallow down. Fucking miles of it, thick and imposing, and that has him swallowing. It's tough, feels like his teeth are grinding down on the intrusion, but Clark just _whines_ like he's done something wonderful.

Hal swallows again, _feels_ rather than _hears_ that wet _pop_ , every inch he can manage sliding into his throat lightning-fast like a pressure valve's been released. He can still feel it, the tip mapping out the soft walls of his throat and fuck— he's never been a fan of blowjobs, giving or receiving — it had always been a strange idea, like some sex practice they should have scrapped forever ago — and he's still not. But he gets it, now.

Hears Clark sob, actually sob, and when Hal's vision clears he finds Bruce's hand on Clark's hip as though he could ever hope to hold the man down. Then again, if anyone could, it'd be Batman.

“Again.” Bruce commands, tone still soft. Still by his ear. “Do it again, and don't panic.”

Hal does as he's told. Dick aching in his boxers, the feeling only deepens when Clark shouts something that's definitely Kryptonian, and he can't fight it anymore— swallows hard around the tentacle and grips his dick, pumps it in time with every short-sharp breath he takes until he's _so fucking close—_

Clark beats him to it, and that's about when Hal's world whites out. Butterscotch and vanilla and _Clark_ flooding his senses, dripping past his lip and he feels, dimly, some of it landing on his spent cock— not sure when he came but it happened, because his eyes are going a little crossed with the sudden feeling of weightlessness. Like flying at Mach Five kind of weightless, dizzying and exhilarating and every inch of tension bleeding from him, that unique taste on his tongue.

Bruce tugs him away gently, helps guide Clark's dick from Hal's mouth with a slick _squelch._ Yeah, the bed's not getting saved. The comforter, sheets, and mattress are all soaked. It's odd, how strongly that slick tastes, when he can't smell anything besides Clark's sweat, Bruce's aftershave. He leans forward, only to be stopped.

“Just breathe.” Bruce commands. “Breathe, Hal.”

After what feels like five minutes of panting, Hal collects enough of himself to meet Bruce's eyes. “The fuck was that?”

His eyes look extremely amused, but he's trying to dampen it. “Clark's secretions are something of an aphrodisiac.” He says, like that's just— like that's not news. Then, he corrects, “More like a mix of aphrodisiacs and central depressants.”

Hal gapes, just a little. “Please don't call it a secretion.”

“ _That's_ what you chose to focus on?”

“Yeah,” he nods, wipes at his mouth. Stubbornly, it sticks, like a lotion he can't just wipe off. God, it's fucking strange. “Yes, that's what I'm focusing on.”

“It's also slightly addictive.”

“Fuck you.”

Bruce smirks. “Later, sweetheart.”

If he had any — _any_ — dignity left, he might blush. As it is, he's just been facefucked by an alien, and his oesophagus tastes like butterscotch, so he simply fixes Bruce with a blank stare.

“Come on,” Bruce rumbles, somehow gets his legs working enough to stand. There's slick on his thighs, on his chest. Hal wants to fucking lick it up, so maybe he'd been telling the truth earlier. Or maybe Bruce was just _hot._ He holds out a hand. “He's going to need a minute.”

“Thought you said he was unstoppable?” Hal stares at the hand. Takes it after a moment, fingers feeling stiff and unwieldy. Bruce pulls him up, eyebrow raising when Hal barely helps.

He feels like fucking _Bambi._ His knees lock when he stands, every inch of him tingling right down to his toes. His muscles ache, like he's already been to see that Thai lady, and his _mouth_ — he can't even feel it beyond a rubbed-raw, lingering-pressure kind of way. God, whatever the fuck is in Clark's come, they should bottle it and sell it for a fortune.

Bruce's thumb rubs the back of his hand, slowly bringing him back to his body. Which feels fantastic, now that he has a moment to breathe. “He is.” He nods. “But he gets…” they both look to the bed, Clark's fingers still wrapped up in the sheets and his mouth bitten red, chest heaving, eyes screwed shut and that _tentacle_ still against his stomach, relaxed now that it's gotten off. “He just need a minute to pull it together. Sometimes it gets too much for him.”

Bruce gives him a moment — just a moment, because he can't be seen going soft, of course — and then he's tugging Hal away, towards the door to the left of them. Hal stumbles after him, a little surprised to find a small ensuite, clean and tidy and Jesus— he's dripping slick all over it. The tiles are spotless, ceramic little white squares with a beige shower mat outside said shower. Bruce stands there for a second, then he's letting go of Hal's hand, shucking his boxers off in one smooth move.

After all that in the bedroom, it's a little weird to see a regular, human dick. No less impressive, though. Thick and heavy between his thighs, and Hal _wants_ , following Bruce when he flicks the shower on and stands under the spray, water sliding down the planes of his body to wash away the slick. Hal watches it swirl the drain, realising faintly that it has a slight, diluted colour; pink-red-purple.

Hal wedges himself into the shower too after kicking his sticky boxers off, Bruce stepping back until his shoulders hit the wall, slumping against them with a sigh. “Is there really a point in getting clean?”

“Not really.” Bruce murmurs. Runs those scarred hands through his hair, knuckles split and ugly between the strands. “But you'll be glad you had, after.”

“Let me guess,” Hal laughs, tongue too big in his numb mouth, “it gets messier?”

Bruce's dick twitches. Still hard, still distractingly _hard_ , Hal realising that Bruce hadn't touched it even once. Now, he does, gives it a clinical tug to wash away the last of Clark's slick, and then he's tipping his head back against the spray. “You bet.”

“How the fuck did you keep this secret?” Hal mumbles, staring through the rising steam to the open doorway, giving him a view of Clark's lower half, that tentacle still sated and limp. “Seriously, how the Hell did you not run to the nearest megaphone and shout it from the rooftops?”

“There aren't a lot of megaphones these days, Hal.” Bruce says, tone flat. Hal snaps back to him, the shower pattering between them, and finds his eyes are cold, a thin line between his eyebrows.

“You can just say you love him, Bats.” Hal leans in, water pooling in his hair. “The world won't end.”

And then he says something unexpected, unfathomable, _laughable_ if it weren't Batman speaking. “I own him.”

Hal blinks. “I'm sorry, what?”

“I said,” and now he sighs, like Hal should fucking know what he means just like that, “I own him.”

“No, uh,” Hal stares at the offered soap. “Really, what?”

“Clark and I,” he says, and forces the soap into Hal's tingling fingers. “We have an agreement. I own him, completely and wholly.”

“Like a fucking pet?”

“If you like, yes.” Bruce hands him the sponge, too. “And I do love him, otherwise that wouldn't work.”

Hal stares. There's hot water stinging his eyes and soap in his hands but, God, fuck, tonight can't get any weirder. He barely remembers his original question, except that apparently Superman is a kept boy— and with Bruce, dark and demanding and quiet, all the fucking time— it doesn't really surprise him.

He's hit his surprise limit, it seems. Nothing short of a car battery can shock him now.

“Okay.” He coughs. Soaps up and scrubs down. “Can you, uh— can you explain that one.”

“I've been in love with him for going on four years.” He states.

Hal hands the soap over. Watches Bruce mechanically lather up and work his hair with shampoo that will probably destroy that perfect shine it has. “Not that part.”

“Clark and I have certain…” he trails off, sticks his head under the water to wash the suds out. “Fetishes that align. He craves to be controlled and, to a certain degree, humiliated and owned.”

Hal copies him slowly, shaking his hair out of his eyes when it goes limp. “Humiliated?”

Two huge shoulders shrug. “To an extent. Clark's relationship with his xenobiology is complicated.”

“Right.” He murmurs. “Of course.” _Yeah, of fucking course, Superman's a Super-sex-fiend who is maybe-sorta-kinda a dog. Or something._

A set of blue eyes roll, Bruce sighing. “Hal, do you know what B.D.S.M is?”

And, that— fuck, yeah, he knows that. Thank God, something that _actually_ makes sense. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Mostly porn, and that one weird boyfriend he'd had back in his first year in the Air Force, taking him out on weeknights to weird, secretive clubs, all invite-only and please-wear-spandex. But he knows enough.

“It's just that.” Bruce's mouth tips into something sardonic, a little self-deprecating. “With some added fetishes that don't exactly have a basis in the community, given that Clark's life experiences are _unusual_. Don't worry about it too much.”

Hal swallows thickly. “You could have led with that.”

“But you're fucking adorable when you're nervous.” He says, leans forward with his considerable bulk, wet and _hard_ and smelling faintly of Clark's soap, “I do like making you nervous.”

“You're a dick, you know that?” Hal snaps, and leans forward to kiss him before he can think of all the reasons why that's stupid. There's water between them, Hal tasting it with every kiss, Bruce's huge hand coming to grip his ass roughly and tug him closer. Close enough that their hips meet, and Bruce wastes no time in rutting, iron hot against Hal's hip with a growl that's not Batman in the slightest.

He realises, faintly, that it's just _Bruce._

He tastes like butterscotch and vanilla and the bitter after effects of nicotine, coffee. God, he just tastes _good,_ and works feeling back into Hal's mouth until it's _all_ he can feel; alive at that one point where Bruce is inside of him, tongue against his.

He gasps into his mouth, allows him to explore every inch in a sloppy, mess of a kiss. And then Bruce bites— fuck, fuck, that's gonna bruise— on his lip, groaning as he comes, all of it over in less than a minute. After a moment of just them breathing, chest-to-chest and Bruce's come dripping away, Bruce pulls back.

Slides a stubbled cheek up to Hal's jaw, an intimate reenactment of his earlier blowjob, and rumbles, “And to answer your question,” he hums, “I keep it secret, because I don't like sharing with just anybody, Hal.”

God, okay. Fuck. “Are you this intense all the time?” Hal chokes, because he doesn't know what's good for him. “Does it get tiring?”

Bruce snorts. Leans back, has a final rinse-off and then steps out of the shower with a quiet, “Come on, he's probably ready for another round.”

“And what about me?” He calls ahead. Shuts the shower off clumsily. “Huh? What if I'm not ready?”

Bruce pauses. “Then I'll go first.” With that, he towels off quickly, scrubbing at his hair until it's not dripping and leaves Hal to do the same.

After a few moments, he hears soft spoken words, the distinct rumble of Bruce's baritone and Clark's answering noises. Like a magnet, he's drawn to it, thankful for the heating on as he steps back into the room with his damp skin.

Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn't Bruce sitting on Clark's chest, waving a stern finger at him as he asks, “You'll be good boy, won't you? On your best behaviour?”

Clark jerks his head sharply, quick enough to give any human whiplash. “Yes,” he gasps, “I'll be good. Yes— just, please— Rao—” his hips buck, completely ignored.

“Ask me nicely, then.”

Clark bucks his hips again, chest lifting along with it, and Bruce doesn't so much as shift. Just stares hard, holds Clark's foggy gaze. “Please--" he chokes, bites his lip, colour on his cheek and quickly spreading down his neck. “Please, can I fuck you? Please, please let me— fuck— please let me fuck you.”

Bruce waits a beat, impassive. Then, of all things, he turns to Hal where he's frozen in the doorway. Voice droll when he asks, “What do you think? Has he been good?”

Hal's throat works silently. “Um,” Clark actually _whimpers,_ his tentacle against his stomach and very obviously trying to reach Bruce where he sits, insistent and slick again. “Yeah, he's been good. Yeah.”

“Yes, he has.” Bruce agrees. He traces the edge of Clark's jaw gently, sweetly, and laughs quietly when Clark sucks those fingers into his mouth. “You've been very patient, haven't you, baby?”

Clark nods furiously. Which— he hasn't, not by Hal's measure, but maybe he's been worse than this. Less boneless-horny-teenager and more forceful, insistent, hounding Bruce for it all hours of the day.

It's a thought that has his dick waking up instantly.

He feels wrung-out already, like he's matched Clark orgasm-for-orgasm, despite the fact that he hasn't. Feels a little unreal, if he's being honest, and maybe it's the slick or just the fact that he's here. Standing buck naked in Superman's bedroom like they do this all the time, Batman knuckle-deep in his own ass, that baritone huffing out moans with every rock of his fingers.

Once upon a time, Hal had wished for this. Not _this_ , exactly, never in his wildest dreams had he even considered this as a possibility. But, maybe something like this, before he'd clocked on and realised the World's Finest were in it together. More than friends.

(Barry had looked at him a little like he was a moron, stumbling back out of the training room to hiss, “Did you know they were—?”

Barry had also passed him a beer at six o'clock that night, sitting on Hal's secondhand couch, watching _something_ , he can't even fucking remember now. But it had seemed important at the time, and so had that: Barry shoulder-to-shoulder beside him, saying, “It'll work out, Hal.”

At the time, he hadn't really believed him. Finds he still doesn't.)

Clark's head rolls to the side when Hal takes his place on the bed, cheeks an almost unhealthy red. His eyes are wild, glassy, like he's got a fever and Hal can't help pressing a wrist to his forehead. Maybe he always runs this hot.

Bruce sighs behind him, shifting heavily and then Clark's eyes _roll_ , a groan coming from that abused mouth. Hal watches every inch of that slick tentacle disappear, Bruce's breath coming in a strange pattern. After a moment, he realises it hurts. Batman doesn't exactly show pain often, except to maybe snap a bit more when he's got a six-inch plate of glass poking his ribs, but he bites his bottom lip now. Clenches his jaw and lets his breath out slowly, shakily, as he sinks down.

He makes it halfway, nowhere close to that thick base, before he pulls up and starts the whole ordeal again, dick still hard between his thighs. Hal feels his throat constrict a little. Bruce fists his cock hard, scarred fingers pumping himself fast and rough, head tilted back to curse at the ceiling.

Clark whines, bringing Hal's attention back to the wet, warm invitation of his mouth and those red, fevered cheeks. “Please—”

“Quiet.” Bruce snaps before he's even got the full word out, mouth falling open a little. “You can go when I say you can.”

Hal blinks. And, yeah, it was awfully calm for how Clark's been in the last hour. Strung tight like a bow, every impossible muscle clenched and tensed, forcefully held in place by not much more than Superman's will. How Bruce sits there, calm and steady, when Clark's seconds from snapping like a tripwire, Hal has no fucking clue.

But, if anyone could, it'd be Batman.

Bruce breathes out heavily, almost a pant. Slows it down, visibly, eyebrows still tugged tightly when his head drops forward, stares at the heaving expanse of Clark's stomach.

A beat, two. And then impossibly quiet, gentle and soothing, “Go.”

He must have blinked. _Must have_ , because he's looking, watching that tentacle between Bruce's wide thighs, and then he's not. Every inch of it buried to the hilt, and _fuck_ , that has got to hurt but Bruce just groans, back arching and fingers shaking on his dick. And Clark isn't moving so much as vibrating, each hand fisted into the sheets, the faint _rip_ of the mattress and foam beneath.

He jackknifes, _hard_ , drawing another groan from Bruce's throat. Deep enough that he can see it travel up his throat, a rumbling thing, and every inch of him follows suit, thighs straining. Clark doesn't so much as hesitate, barely keeps it within the range of human motion, slow enough that Hal can watch it all happen in high definition, full technicolor, the Goddamned _IMAX_ of fucking.

There's a constant, obscene _wet_ noise. Like a fucking boot stuck in mud, and it's Bruce, it's Clark— its Clark's cock, hammering into him like a lightning bolt. Hal's hand finds his dick of its own accord, hard again, caught somewhere between rapt attention and absolute horror.

He's seen Bruce take on a lot. Seen him do impossible, fucking _impossible_ things. Watched him choke down a ten inch, writhing tentacle and not even blink, and that was just tonight. Yesterday, he probably did that _too,_ and the night before, and every night since they started— and the thought has his dick jerking in his hand, painting the sheets a little whiter.

Somewhere along the way, Bruce slumps forward, heavy and hard, braced against Clark just enough to save himself of the embarrassment of face-planting into Clark's diamond-hard clavicle. Hal wonders, dimly, if it would knock him out. As it is, Clark's doing a pretty good job himself, bucking and growling, spitting filth into the side of Bruce's jaw, rough and hard. His hips meet Bruce's with a bruising pace, not careful in the least.

The man's always walked around like a punching bag. Thick, purpling bruises snaking up from the edges of the suit as he'd changed on the Watchtower. And, maybe some of those were from missions, patrols in Gotham are _rough,_ but Clark's fucking rougher, hands coming around to _move_ Bruce how he wants, rocks him on his dick, fingers dug in tightly wherever he can grab.

Hal breathes shaky, mouth working for _something_ to say. Maybe _stop_ , maybe _be gentle,_ and then Bruce cuts in with a sob, full-on and choked, gasping Clark's name as his hips jerk and he comes between them. He keeps sobbing, rides all of Clark out, even when the slick noise gets louder, worse, and Hal realises somewhere in there Clark had come too, fucked straight through his own orgasm and come out the other side rougher than ever.

He puts a damp hand on Clark's shoulder. Careful, because this is— it's out of his depth, and he's not afraid to fucking say it. All of this is, but Bruce sobbing out for more like a whore takes the cake, and he's not sure what's right anymore. For all he knows, Clark's seconds from snapping the man in half, or maybe snapping _Hal_ in half, if he steps wrong.

Clark's head jerks, meets Hal's eyes above the shock of Bruce's ruffled hair. Those blue eyes no longer feverish, and instead crystal clear, fully aware for perhaps the first time since they started.

Hal removes his hand gently. Bruce doesn't give any sign he knows what fucking day it is, let alone that Hal's stroking his hair, Clark's hips stuttering to an abrupt halt, rocking back in gently one last time.

“Fuck.” Oh, is that him? “Fuck.”

Bruce makes a noise, hoarse. It takes a minute for it to register as a laugh. “Yeah.”

Clark's breath comes out in a short puff, head falling back onto the sheets. They look almost comfortable, Bruce's head cradled into the hollow of Clark's throat by a gentle hand, the both of them shining with sweat. Like they hadn't just banged harder than anyone on planet Earth and lived to tell the tale. Gentle fingers tug at Bruce's thigh, spreading him wider, and Hal can't help leaning over to watch.

That thick base, _fuck,_ stretching Bruce's hole to the limit, and he'd almost expected blood, maybe, or something equally horrifying. Instead, he's just opened and taut, thighs trembling as Clark slowly pulls free with a slick, steady slide, unplugging to let the fucking  _Niagara Falls_ of come pour out of that swollen, trembling hole.

Bruce whimpers. Actually, honestly, whimpers. Hole clenching on nothing, Hal can't tear his eyes from the slick-drip down onto that tentacle, lazy and satiated now that it's buried itself in something warm and willing.  Clark's hand gentles on the meat of Bruce's ass, relieving its bruising grip to reveal red, deep bruises, like he's been spanked for an hour.

God, it must have hurt. It must have felt fucking fantastic. He barely remembers what it even feels like, having hot hands on his skin, being stretched so wide all he can do is fucking sob for it.

Clark strokes his skin gently, tracing across the scars and bullet wounds until he strays to Bruce's hole, still clenching on nothing. Curls two thick, steady fingers in him, forcing more slick out, Bruce full-body shaking now.

“—did so good, baby, took it so good for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, soft enough that Hal almost misses it, too busy watching as Clark tugs on the edge of Bruce's rim, watching Bruce's control physically fall apart with every cursory touch and violating intrusion.

Bruce garbles something. A noise that must mean _something_ , because those fingers stop their exploration, trailing the back of his thigh gently, soothingly.

“Yeah?” Clark rumbles. It's a fucking miracle he can even speak. It's like their roles have reversed between one orgasm and the next, Hal searching for anything to say dumbly. “You done, baby? Need a break? You did so good, so good for me, thank you—”

Bruce mutters something into Clark's collarbone.

And then Clark's clear, blue eyes slide to Hal's. “Want to go next?”

That's the million dollar question, isn't it? “Sure,” he mumbles, not recognising his own voice. It's far away, making decisions that aren't smart at all. His own voice has declared itself President and C.E.O of the Jordan body, and it's making fucking executive decisions. “Yeah, lets go, cowboy.” And it's _stupid._

Clark smiles something lazy, teeth showing in the lamplight. “Okay,” he nods, noses at Bruce's hair gently to get him moving. In the time it's taken them to share a few words, Bruce has returned to his body, though he looks closer to a corpse still than anything. But, hey, what's fucking new in Batman's life.

Bruce groans, deep and gravelly. Extracts himself from the dips and rises in Clark's body, sweat clinging to his skin, reminding Hal exactly how it is someone as emotionally stunted as Bruce Wayne has teen models on his arm every other night; just an unfair fucking wall of muscle, artfully dishevelled hair, and a jaw that Hal wants to suck on until it's black and blue. “Good luck.”

Hal snorts. “Thanks.” Hot hands find his hips, pulling him over and up like he weighs nothing, thick fingers splayed wide on Hal's skin. He meant to say more, some snarky thing about maybe Bruce's ass or just _anything_ , but he can't think of a single syllable in the universe to utter except, “ _Guh.”_

So, maybe that's a kink. Maybe this is all a bit of a kink. He's not really sure of anything anymore. If he'd been asked a week ago if he'd be up for a tentacle as long as his forearm being pummelled up his ass, well, he's not sure his answer would be enthusiastic. If they'd asked if he'd do it after Batman's had his fill, he'd have probably told them to suck a cock.

Everything's turned on its head, fucking _wrong_ and Hal's floating in the middle of it. All that remains true is that he's desperate, it's been a long time since he's ridden and now that he's got every inch of Clark Kent splayed out under him, chest heaving and sweat pooled in the dip of his throat, he _wants_ . Fuck how it happens, he's going to come his brains out and it's going to be _now._

“Hey there, stranger.” Hal rumbles, tipping a smile Clark's way. Bruce laughs into the sheets.

Face-down in the mattress, Bruce lifts his head just enough to be understood. “Think you can shut him up?” There's still slick painting his thighs, that handprint bright on his ass, marked up every inch of his body in some way or other. He looks fucking _good._ He looks how Hal wants to be.

Clark's fingers flex on his hips, tugging on the skin there. A gentle, but firm reminder of what's to come, as if Bruce half-passed out wasn't enough. “I think I'll manage.”

“That a challenge?”

“If you want it to be, Hal.” The grin Clark gives him didn't come from Kansas; all filth, all promises. Hal grins back, rocks his hips for the friction against his dick.

Acutely aware of the tentacle making itself known, a slow curl around his thigh like a child wanting attention, Hal circles his hips again. “Just be gentle, yeah? It's my first time.”

“Yeah, you're a real innocent one, Hal.” He replies, lifting a hip to roll them both, still together enough to place a hand on Hal's neck and pillow his fall. “Like you're not desperate for it.”

“Hey, fuck you, for one,” he mumbles, distracted by the sudden, wet-heat around his cock. Like he's balls deep in a woman, except no, that's just Clark's tentacle getting frisky, and _fuck, that feels good,_ Clark sucking a heavy mark right under his jaw, claiming and hot. “For two, are you doing that?”

Clark hums. Nips at his skin gently, leaning back to inspect his work before he leans in again, chews down _hard._ “Kinda.” His hips buck, jerking against Hal's dick, an electric slide right where he wants it most. “Mostly it just likes you.”

“ _Likes_ me.” He repeats, voice flat. Yeah, sure, he's on the menu. Chef's fucking special.

Clark hums again, not elaborating further, that tentacle pulsing around his cock like the strangest fleshlight. Stranger still that it's working, bringing Hal to full hardness and then some, sticky and burning hot.

“For real—”

“Hal.” Clark bites his jaw. “Be quiet.”

“Okay.” He nods. So maybe he's nervous. Maybe he's nervous, so what? Who wouldn't be. Clark's hand finds his cock, knocking his own out of the way to jerk him slowly, fingers light on his skin, teasing Hal's hips into a quick buck.

“You'll do fine.” He assures, and then his hand is gone, leaving him to skim further down and find his hole, a sudden and unexpected action. “You'll be great, baby,” he croons, kisses the raw skin of Hal's jaw and drives a finger home, slicked by his own come. A blinding stretch that has Hal shouting, knees curling to his chest reflexively. “You're _doing_ great.” He amends.

Hal huffs a shaky breath, nodding once before Clark curls the finger inside of him just right, hits every nerve in his body with a feather-light touch. He's cranked enough it has him moaning, feet digging into the bed. It feels like no time at all before another finger pushes in, too much too fast, a thick burn that he enjoys greatly.

He'll be feeling this for days, no doubt about it. Showing it for days, too, Clark's mouth finding his collarbone to nip at the thin skin there, little pinpricks of pain. The fingers withdraw, Hal clenching down on nothing until they return, slicker than before.

“Hey,” Hal swallows, trying again to speak past the sudden cottonmouth. “Hey, Bats. You're seriously sleeping right now?”

Clark bites down on the sharp edge of his jaw, teeth digging in, a hot tongue following after to soothe the bruise. “He hasn't slept in a while.”

“Figures he's gonna miss—” a groan unexpectedly bubbles up, Hal twisting under Clark's body, utterly focused on the experience of being _filled_. “—miss my alien cherry being popped.”

Endearingly, Clark pulls back to tilt his head. Knuckle deep in his ass, he has the magical ability to look an awful lot like a confused puppy. “You said you'd already—”

“Doesn't count. There were dicks involved.”

“I'm pretty sure,” his tentacle twists on itself, a sharp little motion that has all of Clark's features slackening, “that still counts.” Exhaling, he sets his fingers stretching with a new focus, clumsy and hurried.

Hal's always been bad at this part. Saliva-swapping and sweaty, rough handjobs in bathrooms, count him in twice-over. Fucking in the back of cars, dates that are cut short for the nearest bed, coming until he can't see straight, all good. But the parts in between, fiddling with socks and finding himself unusually lost as Clark quietly works him open, those are tough.

He breathes, acutely aware of how loud it seems against Clark's shoulder. This close, he can see freckles dusting his left side, across the expanse of his shoulders, the sweat slicking the dip of Clark's spine. The curl of hair at his nape, Clark shivering when Hal experimentally tugs on a strand.

All very personal things. Hal tugs again, feeling a hot puff of breath against his collarbone. _Close_ things. Things you can only see on someone when you're this close, this — and this is always where Hal’s mind stutters and stumbles, because if the USAF taught him anything, it's that you can never stay still long enough to get this close — _vulnerable._

“Nice weather we're having.” Hal whispers, earning himself a sharp twist of Clark's talented fingers. Which, he did deserve that, but it's—

It's awfully quiet, now that Bats is down for the count and Hal's thighs are spread wide enough to ache and allow Clark's warm hands access.

Clark nips his throat, right above the pulse. “You'll do fine, Hal.”

“I know.” He nods. Presses his lips to the wide edge of Clark's shoulder, open-mouthed and wet. Biting him would probably hurt. “Was I your first choice?” _Ah, yes, let's ask that now._ The question has been knocking around for a while now, he knows, but it's inopportune to bring up right when a final finger is forced in gently.

Clark, bless him, pauses. Pulls back just enough to nuzzle the side of Hal's face and meet his eyes. “Why wouldn't you be?” Those fingers slow, which is the opposite of what his body wants, Hal clenching involuntary.  

“Come on, Supes.” He mutters. “Really?”

“Well, we knew you were available.” He starts. And yes, it's not exactly a secret. Coast City is— it's— _God—_ “And I've always liked your…” he trails off, leaning in again, Hal realising with a dull, dazed thought that he's about to be kissed, about to have Superman kiss him, terrifying and calming and laced with the faint realisation that he hasn't _yet_ , when it feels like they've been here for hours. “...Mouth.”

“Yeah?” Hal murmurs, because people say that short of shit when they're close, don't they? _Yeah, you like that— Yeah, I want— Yeah, yeah, don't stop_ — Clark's mouth meets his gently, barely a pressure. All that power, all that focus, and he kisses like Hal's made of glass. Barely a nudge of tongue, just enough to show he's there, burning hot inside of Hal's mouth.

Hal gives back easily, pressing against that tongue with a hand winding itself in Clark's impossibly soft hair. He tugs, crushes Clark closer until he can taste every inch of his mouth, a diluted version of that butterscotch-bitter, Hal sighing against him. This, this part he knows intimately.

Brad Stevens had put gum in his hair, and Hal had crashed his fist right into the brat's nose. Put every ounce of — anger, maybe, but worse, that feeling of being _small_ — himself into one punch, and it had been satisfying, even after, sitting in the principal's office with a split-lip and a chunk the size of a nickel missing from his hair.

Like every nerve in his body had sung for it, that moment when he'd been _small_ and won anyway, punched anyway, flew anyway, said _Okay_ anyway. Better than Mach Five any day, taking that chance.

And it was satisfying now to wrap his legs around Clark, pull him in until his fingers are crushed between them, trapped, and Clark groans right into his mouth, a strangled sound that Hal enjoys immensely. It feels like winning, like taking a chance. Grinds his hips up, acutely aware of how the body above his doesn't give, doesn't move, doesn't so much as _dip_ , Hal chewing on Clark's lip roughly.

He's immovable. Broad and heavy, stealing the air right from Hal's lungs when he grinds down full-body, torso dragging across Hal's. And Hal feels— feels _small_ , movable and pliable. Usable. _Anything_ is like that to Clark, isn't it? How fucking lucky they all are, then. God, he sounds like _Bruce._

If it were anyone else with all that strength, he might feel— not fear, never fear but— Clark's hips could crush his, those rough hands could get a whole lot rougher, one wrong move and he'd be facing uncontrolled violence. But it's Clark. Kansas born-and-raised Clark. Funny how yesterday he hadn't known even that and now he just feels — _fuck, fuck, fuck_ — safe.

Clark pulls him from his own head with a scrape of teeth across his collarbones, a red-hot line to the edge of his shoulder. Hal can't help the squirm, the puff of air. Every inch of him feels virgin, like he's had nothing but his left hand for years.  It's not quite that bad, thank you very much, but his dick takes notice anyway. Each touch is new and overwhelming, almost, taking up his focus in a heartbeat.

And he's _good,_ Goddamn he's good. Now that his head's cleared, Clark's on a mission. Crooks his fingers just right, slick and sticky, Hal arching into him with a curse, a puppet on a damn string. Twists inside of him, and Hal follows suit, hips grinding down on those thick, _perfect_ fingers.

“That's it,” a low, rough voice, Hal almost mistakes it for Bruce. But, no, that's Clark, wrung-out and ready for more, a baritone that Hal feels against his chest, all but rattling his ribs. “That's it, baby, just relax.”

Hal laughs, cutting off at the next stretch of fingers inside him. “Sure,” he mumbles, aware that he sounds drunk maybe, half-asleep and barely coherent. A third finger joins the others with a burning sensation, the unmistakable stretch that he's been _missing_ . His toes curl in the sheets hard enough to ache. “ _Fuck.”_

Clark kisses his jaw. It's so tender, a wonderful contrast to the punishing width of his hands, Hal moaning openly to the ceiling. “You're doing so good, sweetheart.”

Under his fingers, his mouth, those soft words against his too-tight, too-warm skin, Hal cracks open. Keens with a desperation, grinding against his fingers, and knows he must look ridiculous— pathetic— but Clark gives back, thrusts just shallowly enough to tease and bring him right to the edge but no further. Hal sucks on the muscle of Clark's invulnerable shoulder, eyes screwed shut until he sees fireworks.

It's fucking satisfying. It's so good he could cry, or maybe just come right when Clark bears down on him and pulls his fingers free, taking every ounce of pleasure with him. A sob bubbles in his throat, cut off.  

There's barely a reprieve between one extreme and the next, — _not full, not full enough, more,_ and then _God, too much, too much, Clark, Clark, Clark_ — the tentacle filling the space punishingly, harshly, roughly.

Testament to Clark's control, really, that it's taken this long. A gasp punches its way from his throat, trailing off to a groan, all teeth and half-formed words. There’s no room for air left in him, not when he's so thoroughly filled, no room left for anything but Clark. Clark, stretching him so wide it hurts, Clark slicking the way so perfectly, Clark drawing sounds from him he wasn't sure he could make anymore.

(Coast City is— it is— _Coast City is fucking— Dead, dead, dead.)_ It's been a long while since Hal's been this full, this close, this _anything._ This alive at every nerve, blitzed right down to his core by the pure, pounding heat of someone else inside of him.

(Hal's as lonely as Coast City, and how fucked up— how miserable, that he can only admit it when Superman is there, layered over him, inside him, making Hal feel so _small— so good—)_

Muscle memory brings a tremble in his thighs, the skittering of his fingers along Clark's back until he finds purchase in the vertebrae of his spine. Whatever his brain has forgotten how to do, his body remembers, throat working on a silent moan.

Forearms brace on either side of Hal's head, Clark's mouth crushing into his with a sloppy, unrefined skill, unwilling to let go even when Hal becomes breathless, dizzy and not sure what to do besides dig his fingers into that invulnerable skin and sob.  

Every inch of skin is invaded, sensitised and pressed to Clark's, both hands curling into Hal's hair to cradle his head, or maybe hold him still as those hips buck, grind, _fuck_ into him with all the fury of an animal.

And it is— like an animal. A jerky, unrefined set of thrusts, barely needed when there's such a strange, wonderful _twisting_ inside of him, pressing against every wall and stretching until Hal's sure he can't take more. He's so warm, burning hot and lighting up a fire right in Hal's hips until he bucks up against that heat, chases it furiously, as focused as Clark is on one singular goal.

It's suffocating, this close and this hard. There's no place to retreat to and no room for a quip, no space to breathe or even _think_ beyond the unbelievable weight inside of him, anchoring him down.

It's fucking _glorious._

Clark drives into him with enough force to shake the bed, drawing a breathless _noise_ right out of him, hit in places he didn't know he had but apparently they're all connected right to his cock, aching and tucked away between them, ignored. Even if he could move, could let go of Clark and put his hands on his cock, he's not sure he would.

Doesn't need to, when there's a muted _thrash_ inside of him, stretching his walls and just pure, unbridled pleasure-pain, a confusing mix. Hal rides it out, sucks in breath where he can. Feels every thrust in his muscles, right down to his core, breakneck and everything he needs to let his head fall back against the mattress and let himself be moved, used.

It's unbelievably rough. Rough for him, maybe, but some small part of him suspects this is as gentle as Clark can bear to be right now.

Strong hands lifting his hips, spine protesting even as Hal's mouth opens and lets out a slurry of, “More, harder, gorgeous, _more,_ ” and Clark takes his mouth tenfold, a domineering violation of tongue and teeth. Hal lets it happen, mouth slack and inviting, dimly aware of the growing sting on his ass as Clark grips him with both hands and drives in deep, let's it happen and feels the orgasm build in his aching cock.  

Clark groans, more of a growl. His teeth break the skin of Hal's bottom lip, the pain sliding down and melting into the rest of it; the burn, the stretch, the orgasmic feel of simply being _close—_ close to someone, anyone, but especially to Clark, swallowed under his bulk and _small, usable, God—_

Clark's hips stutter. Unsteady, slowing, Hal registering a different kind of _full_ , hot and wet and _hot_ , electric lashing right up his spine. This close, he can feel the tremble of Clark's muscles, the strength in those gentle hands, the beating pulse of that tentacle as he comes, and comes, and _comes_ —

Hal comes with him. Pitiful and short, tucked away between them, fluid cooling rapidly as Hal's eyes all but cross, a choked curse on his lips. It's pathetic, and too many orgasms in too short a time, he's had bigger and better but— he still sobs when it happens, clutching on until each finger aches, thighs shaking.

Clark bites him again, hips rocking one last time. Hal groans, or rather, tries to. It comes out as a whimper, his thighs shaking around Clark's sharp hips. Too much, too full, too _close_. Clark mouths at his neck, his jaw, the edge of his mouth, licking apologetically at the fresh cut of his lip.

It's fucking unfair, how Hal’s brain is white noise, a muted thrum of pleasure and aching while Clark isn't even out of breath.

“You okay?” He murmurs, still buried to the hilt inside of him. His hips shift just a little, sending sparks up Hal's abused spine, a gentle kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth when all Hal can manage is a grunt. “Did I hurt you?”

Hal blinks. _Uh, yeah. Can I have more?_ “No.” He mumbles. “‘M good.” The skin of his mouth stings something fierce, and he thinks of Bruce, how he'd been swollen and gaping and pouring with come. Between their bodies, Hal can faintly make out the red-purple of Clark's cock, pulsing and jerking lazily.

“You sure, baby?” Clark kisses him again. Soft and gentle, a slide of his tongue against the roof of Hal's mouth.

“Yeah,” he sighs, and kisses back. “I feel good.” Clark tastes different now, a little more vanilla-y. Stronger. He wonders, dumbly, if that's an effect of Clark's orgasm. He doesn't know. Doesn't know much of anything about Clark and his differences. Doesn't care, so long as that tentacle keeps twisting gently inside of him, brushing his worn-out prostate.

A rustle, and then a sigh, groggy and tired. “You looked good.”

Hal blinks. “What the fuck, Spooky?” Over Clark's mountainous shoulder, he meets Bruce's clear blue eyes. “You were awake?”

A smile tips his mouth, red and raw. “Some of it.” With his hair all mussed, flattened on one side and hickeys blooming across his throat, Bruce looks a little unreal. Like this is some weird, alternate-reality version of Bruce that sleeps and has sex and yawns, such as he's doing right now, flopping onto his back with a hand over his mouth. Swallowing away sleep, Bruce slides his eyes to Hal. “You _did_ look good. You okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” He mutters. “Yeah, I'm good. Trying to enjoy the afterglow, you know? But there's all this talking and—”

“We care about you, Hal. That's why.”

He laughs. He knows it's the wrong response, profoundly wrong. But he laughs a little anyway, kissing Clark's shoulder. “Thanks.”

Above him — or rather, on top of him, slumped and heavy and comforting — Clark hums. “We do, Hal.” Reaching between their bodies, he grips himself tightly, pulling out slowly.

Every inch of the tentacle drags along his nerves, so sensitive it's like fucking _sandpaper._ Hal groans, twists away and only slumps back onto the bed only once Clark rolls off him with a huff, landing in the space Bruce shuffles to provide.

Hal sucks in a breath, a little afraid to move. “I don't think I'm gonna recover from this.” He mumbles, patting a hand down his stomach and skipping over his sensitive cock. And yep, that— that is _wet_ , wet and easy to enter, Hal's fingers slipping past swollen muscle to feel the cooling slick inside him.

“It's okay,” Bruce murmurs, still staring at the ceiling. “Clark feels guilty in the morning, so he makes breakfast in bed. With coffee.”

Hal nods. He's fucking _tired_ , stuck on a damn roller-coaster all evening. “Oh. Good.”

Between them, Clark makes an affronted noise. “It's called being _nice,_ Bruce.”

A beat of silence, and then, low and hot and smooth, “Being nice,” Bruce enunciates, “would be sitting on my face right now.”

Hal blinks. Okay.

Beside him, Clark rolls over, propped on one elbow. The freckles of his shoulder go down below, across one side to the middle of his spine. Tentatively Hal drags a thumb across the speckles, tracing out a pattern. All his fingers feel heavy, limbs made of lead. “You just want my come.”

“So what if I do?” Bruce counters, flashing a lazy smile. “Come here, baby.”

Clark does as he's told, floating a little to settle his thighs on either side or Bruce's jaw. His mouth goes a little slack, presumably at whatever Bruce does where Hal can't see. He can imagine just fine, however, about what that mouth could do, remembering the talent of his tongue against Hal's.  

It's not even surprising, watching Clark go for another round. Eventually his tentacle finds its way to Bruce's mouth, Clark's powerful thighs shaking as Bruce grips his ass and digs his fingers in, bringing Clark in until there's nothing but the wet, slick sounds as Clark rocks his hips and lets his head fall back with a moan.

Hal watches until he can't anymore, eyes heavy and his whole body thrumming with a boneless kind of _hurting-good-please-sleep_ feeling. Lets his head fall back onto the pillows, listening to the noises of Superman fucking Batman brainless, Hal's breath evening out in seconds, thighs spread and knees up comfortably.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 coming to a device near you whenever I'm tired of editing it. Please leave comments, and honestly, any suggestions of kinks to include because let's not kid ourselves: this is all about the smut. Kudos always appreciated.


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